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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578183">Dark Horse</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrings/pseuds/heartstrings'>heartstrings</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Men's Hockey RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>2012-2013 NHL Lockout, Anal Fingering, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Blow Jobs, Coming Out, Dick Jokes, EHC Biel, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Fuckbuddies, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Internalized Homophobia, Jonathan Toews Has A Big Dick, M/M, Marathon Sex, Pining, Praise Kink, Reunions, Rimming, Self-Discovery, Size Difference, Size Kink, Top/Bottom Dynamics</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 21:41:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>121,331</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27578183</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartstrings/pseuds/heartstrings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><i>dark horse</i> - noun<br/>1. a candidate or competitor about whom little is known but who unexpectedly wins or succeeds.</p>
<p> <i>In the process of discovering Jonny has a huge dick, Patrick realizes more than a few things about himself - and turns their entire relationship upside down.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>557</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>641</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Big thanks, no huge thanks, no Jonny sized thanks to trademarkgiggle, thundersquall, and boodreaus for their hours and hours of help, holding my hand, editing this monster, and being amazing people who always make my life and writing better. I love you guys and I couldn't do it without you!</p>
<p>*The internalized homophobia in this story is pretty light, for the most part, but there are moments Patrick struggles as he comes to grips with his sexuality and feelings for Jonny, so I just wanted to point that out in case anyone was curious.</p>
<p>You might have noticed the chapter count changed from 16 to 17. I decided to add an epilogue chapter so that's why the chapter count went up. Chapter 16 is already written and will be posted within the next couple weeks. 💗</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2008</b>
</p><p>It starts with Cabbie Richards. Or, to be more specific, it mostly starts with one of Cabbie’s patented invasive, dumbass interview questions during his weekly Sportscentre segments. However, this time, instead of asking the guys about who they’re hooking up with on the road, or if they like to do hot yoga to hit on women, it’s: “So who do you think is, you know, <i>the biggest</i> on the team?”</p><p>Patrick laughs, not because the question is remarkably funny, but because he wasn’t expecting quite this level of stupidity at nine in the morning.</p><p>“Ugh,” Patrick says, and forces himself to not look in disbelief at the camera guy hovering two feet from his face.</p><p>“A lot of the guys named themselves first, obviously,” Cabbie says.</p><p>“<i>Obviously</i>,” Patrick mimics, rolling his eyes.</p><p>“But when I pushed everyone was pretty divided between Seabs and Buff.”</p><p>Patrick mulls this over for a brief second. It sounds legit. He’s seen both of those guys naked. </p><p>Not that he was looking.</p><p>He doesn’t look. He knows better. Growing up in hockey, he was taught - they’re all taught - from the beginning that boys don’t look at other boys in the locker room unless they want trouble. It’s fucked thinking considering guys will routinely and without shame walk around naked, swinging their dicks and balls about like an uncoiled slinky with the ultimate purpose of trying to trick one another into looking so that they can smack each other upside the head. If it’s funny it’s acceptable. No one notices if everyone is laughing.</p><p>He learned a long time ago the message is: don’t look unless it’s a joke. And if you’re looking and it’s not a joke, then it’s gay. Don’t be gay.</p><p>Don’t be <i>that</i> guy.</p><p>These days, it’s not as much of an issue as it was in junior hockey, where those moments were still some of Patrick’s more light-hearted locker room memories. Games like that died off when he went pro and the media was always swarming around, constantly in players' faces to gather sound bites. But on the rare occasion the team gets a quiet moment away from the cameras, you can bet one of the guys has his dick out and pinwheeling.</p><p>The point is, yeah, Patrick doesn’t look, but he’s <i>seen</i>. It’s impossible not to with the amount of time and proximity he’s spent with teammates over the years. He doesn’t want to see these dudes’ dicks, but sometimes dicks just happen, you know?</p><p>“I have no clue,” Patrick says, just to be contrary.</p><p>“Ahh, come on, dude. Don’t lie, everyone has an opinion,” Cabbie says, shoving the mic in Patrick's face. He’s relentless.</p><p>“And everyone’s opinion is Seabs or Buff, apparently?”</p><p>“Well, except for one guy. He was pretty adamant about himself, actually.”</p><p>“Who?” Patrick laughs, assuming Sharpy or Bur or, hell, even Madden, though no way any of those guys were anywhere near being bigger than average.</p><p>“Toews,” Cabbie says.</p><p>And that’s how it really starts.</p><p>*</p><p>He doesn’t think about it. They have a five-game homestand and he’s too busy with practices, games, and hanging with the boys in between to give Cabbie’s interview much attention.</p><p>They go to Rockit and no one bothers asking for his ID as long as he’s with Sharpy and Duncs. It’s great. He can drink as many Coronas as he wants, even if he maybe prefers their strawberry margaritas.</p><p>Jonny’s talkative but stiff and he won’t let himself have more than three Bud Lights, like he’s the fucking designated driver for the night. He’s not.</p><p>“Want another beer?” Patrick asks him sometime around two in the morning.</p><p>They’re both standing near the bar. The pretty bartender, Maggie, has been flirting with Jonny on and off all night. He either hasn’t noticed or doesn’t care. Patrick tried hitting on her earlier and all he got in return was an eye roll. Shit is so unfair.</p><p>“Nah, I’m heading out,” Jonny says. He looks down at Patrick and Patrick notices his cheeks are a little flushed, his eyes black in the low light.</p><p>“We just got here, like, an hour ago, dude. What the fuck?” </p><p>Patrick elbows him loosely, once, twice, laughing when Jonny makes an unamused face at him.</p><p>“We got here four hours ago, Kaner. I’m tired. I’m going home.” He breaks contact, stepping around Patrick and jostling him as he moves. </p><p>Patrick stumbles forward a bit, not realizing how much he was leaning on Jonny until Jonny’s weight is gone. An arm shoots out, steadying him with a solid hand on his shoulder.</p><p>“You good?” Jonny asks. His hand is very big and very warm.</p><p>“Don’t I look good?” Patrick smiles wide and bright in that way he knows tends to get on Jonny’s nerves the most.</p><p>Jonny blinks at him for a beat, eyes flicking over his face, landing momentarily on his mouth before shifting away, expression almost bored.</p><p>“Make sure you get home before you puke on yourself,” Jonny says, dry. He steps back again, letting Patrick go. “Sharpy! You got him?”</p><p>Sharpy, who’s ten feet away and not really paying attention, nods.</p><p>Like Patrick needs a fucking babysitter. Did he mention Jonny’s annoying? Level ten, no, level eleven condescending. It’s good he’s leaving - more room for the fun people, like Patrick.</p><p>“Go home, loser.” He waves Jonny off.</p><p>There’s a smirk on the edge of Jonny’s mouth as he turns, walking away.</p><p>*</p><p>Patrick doesn’t puke on himself that night, but he does puke in Sharpy’s car and in the hallway outside of his apartment.</p><p>Still, he counts it as a win. So fucking take that, <i>Jonny</i>.</p><p>*</p><p>They lose to the Bruins, Blues, and Sharks in the span of a week and Patrick feels bitter and sad. He misses Savvy. The new guy seems fine, if a bit curt and gruff at times. He moves Patrick from Jonny’s line to the second, and sometimes the third.</p><p>It’s only been a few weeks with Q but Patrick can already tell he loves Jonny, Duncs, Seabs, and Buff. The guys who play hard on the puck and backcheck without being yelled at, the defensive players he doesn’t have to pick at.</p><p>Patrick shows up earlier to practices. He makes sure he comes to all of the optional skates. </p><p>Q is difficult enough to read that Patrick can’t figure him out.</p><p>“He hates me,” he tells Jonny.</p><p>“He doesn’t hate you,” Jonny says. “You’re just not the favorite anymore.”</p><p>“And you are?” Patrick asks, eyes narrowed.</p><p>Jonny laughs and begins taking off his gear. Most of the locker room is already cleared out, the press long gone after the morning interviews, and there’s only one meeting left for the day on the penalty kill. A meeting Patrick isn’t required to attend.</p><p>He’s been sitting in his stall, next to Jonny’s, for the last few minutes, his skates off, but his pants and Under Armour still on. Beside him, Jonny’s now shirtless. He takes off his socks and his jockstrap, hanging it up in his locker.</p><p>“Maybe so,” Jonny shrugs, smirking.</p><p>He’s being an asshole on purpose and that’s how Patrick knows he doesn’t really mean it, or at least he doesn’t really believe it - that he’s the favorite. Of course he doesn’t. He’s too perfect to think so highly of himself.</p><p>Perfect asshole.</p><p>Patrick glares at him, frowning, and trying not to let the words “you’re not anymore” linger in his head, so it takes him a moment to catch onto the fact Jonny’s hovering over Patrick in nothing but his very tight underwear, the bulge of his package right within Patrick’s eyeline and close enough to study.</p><p>Cabbie’s words come rushing back to him then, blanking out every other thought.</p><p>
  <i>“Well, except for one guy. He was pretty adamant about himself actually.”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Who?” </i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Toews,” Cabbie says.</i>
</p><p>Patrick’s eyes flicker to Jonny’s crotch instantly then away. He’s not going to look. He’s not going to look because he doesn’t care. Jonny was probably lying anyway. What are the statistical chances someone like Jonny exists: tall, with his stupid face, already captain, a world championship gold medal under his belt, and a big dick? Low. The chances are low. That’s Patrick’s guess.</p><p>But.</p><p>If he’s being fair and impartial, for scientific reasons, he should probably actually see the thing before he makes a final judgment. Just one good, solid look and case closed. No one will be the wiser and Patrick can move on with his life secure in the knowledge that Jonathan Toews is mediocre in at least one big - or not big - way.</p><p>He turns his head slightly, just an inch, and runs his eyes over Jonny’s front again, trying to study the size of him. But just as he’s about to get a good look, Jonny’s stepping away, heading to the showers.</p><p>Only his backside is now visible, and it’s not the part of Jonny he’s currently interested in.</p><p>*</p><p>He’s not interested in any part of Jonny. </p><p>To be clear.</p><p>He’s not.</p><p>It’s just curiosity. Normal, understandable, dick sized curiosity.</p><p>Nothing more. Nothing less.</p><p>He doesn’t need to see it. He can just forget the thought ever crossed his mind and move on with his life. It’s fine.</p><p>*</p><p>Except now that the thought is in his head, he can’t stop thinking about it. He can’t stop wondering and imagining and it’s fucking with his non-dick related thoughts. The more he thinks about Jonny’s alleged giant dick, the more he pictures it, and the more he pictures it, the more he convinces himself that he actually does need to see it to know if it’s real or fake, or some constructed fever dream his mind came up with to torture him. It’s like inception. Dickception. Whatever.</p><p>*</p><p>The moment Patrick finally decides he’s going to let himself check out Jonny’s...situation, it’s like the world starts conspiring to never let him be in the room with Jonny when clothes are coming off at the same time. If he’s walking into the locker room to change, Jonny’s leaving. If he’s leaving the showers, Jonny’s entering. Even when they hang out, Jonny, who has the habit of lounging around in sweatpants and literally no other piece of clothing, has been slipping on loose T-shirts and baggy hoodies.</p><p>The night they leave for the circus trip, Jonny boards the plane with a red, snotty nose and a cough. </p><p>“Don’t get me sick,” Patrick tells him, standing by his seat. His own seat is at the other end of the plane, out of the danger zone.</p><p>“I feel like shit, Kaner. Thanks for asking,” Jonny mumbles around a wet, balled up tissue in his fist. He coughs and it sounds dry, deep in his chest. There’s tiny sweat beads at his temple.</p><p>“Oh, that’s more than clear. I just wanted to make sure you were going to stay over here in your designated quarantine zone before I go sit down with the non-terminally ill.”</p><p>Jonny gives him a stony look and Patrick flicks a pack of Kleenex into his lap. </p><p>“In case you snot up your tray table.”</p><p>“Go away.”</p><p>“There’s more where those came from if you need them,” Patrick assures him, shooting him a wink as he treads back down the aisle.</p><p>He isn’t certain Jonny’s sending him a death glare the entire time Patrick walks back to his seat, but as he plops down, he glances out of his peripheral and Jonny’s not looking at the French magazine in his hands.</p><p>Patrick throws him another Kleenex pack as they depart the airport for the hotel in Phoenix.</p><p>*</p><p>Jonny spends the majority of the time the Hawks are on the road being a one man petri dish of germs and fluids.</p><p>Patrick keeps his distance. </p><p>They don’t get much of a break until after the Leafs game to go out and relax, and by that point four other guys on the team are showing symptoms of having a similar cold to Jonny’s. It ends up being only a small group that goes out with Sharpy and Patrick to a few bars to celebrate his twentieth birthday.</p><p>Jonny’s not among the group, cocooned as he is in blankets back at the hotel. Lame. It’s so incredibly lame. He’s probably drooling on his pillow and snoring like a loud, wet drum, the TV remote still somehow glued to his hand. It’s good he didn’t come out. He would’ve just complained and sat there frowning with his three bland beers. No more than three! </p><p>Patrick drinks two entire pitchers on his own in protest while they’re out, then orders a piña colada because fuck it, it’s his birthday. </p><p>The music at the second bar is mostly honky-tonk country and the opposite of good for dancing. A cute redhead named Tessa slips a napkin with her number on it in his pocket and implies he can come back to her place tonight if he’s willing. Patrick deeply considers it for about ten minutes, and then realizes thinking of this girl on her knees sucking him off and touching her big tits isn’t even remotely getting him hard and he’s probably drunk too much.</p><p>He passes out on Sharpy’s shoulder in the cab on the way back to the hotel. Not a wise choice under most circumstances, especially considering Bur is sitting on the other side of him. If it weren’t his birthday he would almost certainly have woken up to something written on his face or his shoe missing, possibly both. Today is his one free pass.</p><p>His new black Nike tennis shoes drag over the hotel carpet as Sharpy hauls him to his room, slips a keycard in the door and dumps him on his bed before leaving. How he got a keycard to Patrick’s room, Patrick has no idea, but he should probably be prepared for a trashcan of water propped up against the door in the morning when they leave.</p><p>Across the room, Jonny’s surprisingly quiet, face stuffed in his pillow, flat on his belly and legs spread wide. He’s almost too still.</p><p>Is he alive?</p><p>Patrick should check to make sure Jonny didn’t, like, die while he was out celebrating and having a great time without him.</p><p>He walks up to Jonny’s bedside and leans in, pokes at his bare arm, above the covers. </p><p>“Jonny?” he whispers. “Jon? Are you sleeping?”</p><p>No answer.</p><p>“Hey.”</p><p>No answer.</p><p>“Hey, hey, hey,” he tries, poke, poke, poking until Jonny twitches and moves his arm out of reach.</p><p>Patrick leans in closer, inspecting if Jonny's stopped breathing. It’s hard to tell from just staring at his naked back and the heavy darkness in the room, the only light coming from the strips of window uncovered by the curtain.</p><p>“Heyheyheyheyheyhey.”</p><p>Jonny grunts and lifts his head, turning it in Patrick’s direction. “<i>What</i>?”</p><p>“Are you sleeping?” Patrick asks, still whispering.</p><p>One eye cracks open, full of judgment. “I was trying to.” </p><p>“Oh, okay.” Patrick shrugs. He attempts to stand up from where he was crouched down and feels his head swim. “Well, you missed my birthday.”</p><p>Both eyes open and blink at him. Jonny’s lips purse. “I’m sorry, Kaner.”</p><p>“Yeah,” he sighs.</p><p>He steps back, intending to move to his own bed and sit, but he stumbles a little, tripping over his own foot and crumples to the floor. </p><p>A hand reaches out and offers support as Patrick heaves himself up onto his knees; he needs a minute before he can stand again.</p><p>Maybe two minutes.</p><p>“Did you have a good time?” Jonny asks, low. Patrick sways forward until he has to prop his hands on Jonny’s mattress. </p><p>This close, Patrick can see Jonny's flushed from his cheeks to his forehead and all down his neck. The skin under his eyes is puffy, his lips chapped and ragged like snakeskin.</p><p>Patrick touches his palm to Jonny’s temple and tries to breathe through the dizziness swirling around him, flipping his stomach over and over.</p><p>“Your head feels hot. You need some water?”</p><p>Jonny looks up at him for a long beat, unreadable. “Yeah. Yes.”</p><p>Patrick nods and slowly gets back to his feet, padding over to the bathroom. He unwraps one of the plastic cups near the sink, fills it with water, and as he makes his way back over to Jonny spills some of it on his hand and the ground before giving it to him.</p><p>“Thank you.” Jonny drinks it all in one go, tossing the empty cup on the other side of his bed. Slob. “We’ll go out when we get back to Chicago, okay?”</p><p>The corner of Patrick’s mouth tugs up as a wave dips sickeningly in his belly. “‘Kay. I’m gonna go puke now.”</p><p>*</p><p>It’s well into December before there are enough days off for Sharpy to throw Patrick a proper birthday party at his house. It’s a big one; the whole team is invited, with the entire downstairs packed full of people, music blasting, and the smell of booze and food in the air.</p><p>It’s his party so of course, it’s bumpin’.</p><p>Patrick decides to take it easy for the night, not wanting to repeat the hangover he had on the road. He sips leisurely at some IPA Jonny handed him when they first arrived and watches from the sidelines as Steeger and Brow play Guitar Hero.</p><p>“I got next round after I take a leak,” Patrick says, setting down his drink on a nearby table and heading for the stairs.</p><p>From behind him he can hear Steeger yelling at him about watching his mouth with ladies around and he chuckles, distracted as he reaches the second-floor bathroom and opens the door.</p><p>“Occupied,” a deep voice says.</p><p>And Patrick startles so hard he jerks and smacks into the wood door frame. He glances up and sees Jonny in front of the toilet, dick in hand as he urinates.</p><p>Hitting his shoulder hurts enough a tiny, punched out ‘ow’ falls from his mouth, but he doesn’t move. Can’t move.</p><p>He’s frozen in place.</p><p>Patrick should leave, but he can see the pink head of Jonny’s cock in his fist and Patrick’s brain momentarily shuts down. Goodbye. Gone.</p><p>“Shit. I didn’t know you were - my bad. Take your time. Bye,” Patrick says and slams the door shut.</p><p>He doesn’t go back downstairs, instead speed walking to Sharpy’s bedroom, racing into the ensuite bathroom, and locking the door. He pisses for approximately two minutes and then washes his hands. After he sits on the edge of the tub and tries to process what he said, what he <i>saw</i>.</p><p>Part of Jonny’s dick.</p><p>Not the whole dick.</p><p>One-fourth? No. One-sixth?</p><p>Christ.</p><p>*</p><p>Weeks pass and Jonny never mentions Patrick accidentally walking in on him in the bathroom. Mostly Patrick doesn’t expect him too but, for some reason he can’t quite pinpoint, he feels restless and untethered by the idea that at any point Jonny <i>might</i>. Christmas and New Year’s come and go and things settle back into a kind of normal. The team picks up a few wins and then drops a handful of losses to division rivals.</p><p>Patrick’s just about ready to forget Jonny’s dick and the question of its potential hugeness when suddenly he begins running into Jonny’s dick everywhere he goes.</p><p>The locker room? Check.</p><p>The workout room? Check.</p><p>The lounge? Check.</p><p>The hotel room? Check.</p><p>The showers? DOUBLE CHECK THAT BITCH.</p><p>It’s a glimpse here, the side of his naked body there; Patrick's catching just enough to feel like he’s constructing a quadratic equation where A equals the length and B equals the girth, and not knowing what X equals.</p><p>Maybe X really does equal the unknown.</p><p>Fuck, now he’s doing dick math.</p><p>The day he walks into the empty showers alone and realizes Jonny’s walked in behind him a few minutes later is also the same day he realizes that if he wants to catch a real glimpse of his dick, this is probably the best opportunity.</p><p>Patrick formulates a quick plan. It consists of him finishing washing up, drying off, and casually passing by Jonny’s stall as he leaves the room. Just nonchalantly walking by him, as people do, and maybe taking a quick peek as he goes.</p><p>The rule is boys don’t look at other boys in the locker room. And they definitely, absolutely do not look at other boys in the shower.</p><p>Patrick won’t be looking. Looking implies setting your eyes upon something and taking it in for a moment, for more than a beat. A quick glance isn’t the same thing. Just a, boom, bam, done. As fast as that.</p><p>He didn’t say this was a good plan. Or a foolproof plan.</p><p>But it is the one he’s going with.</p><p>Worst case scenario: Jonny catches him. Or someone not named Jonny catches him. Or both.</p><p>Best case scenario: well.</p><p>Patrick leaves his stall, towel wrapped around his body as his shower shoes slap against the wet tile. He tries sliding his feet instead, taking in a quick breath as he comes upon where Jonny’s showering. Each stall has a curtain for privacy, but most of the guys don’t bother using them, too busy getting in and out as fast as possible. Patrick’s always used his curtain, has ever since he was a kid, uncomfortable with the idea of people watching him when he didn’t want them to. </p><p>The thought lingers in his mind as he passes by Jonny, sighs, keeps his eyes forward,  and... totally punks out.</p><p>Halfway to the locker room, he realizes he forgot something from his shower caddy in his stall. He starts to walk back, gets to the doorway, stops, and turns around again. If he goes back in there, Jonny’s definitely going to know something’s up. Patrick’s going to have to leave it.</p><p>He’s standing there, dripping water everywhere and still deciding what to do when someone else saunters in.</p><p>“What the fuck are you doing?” Sharpy asks, underwear on and towel in hand. </p><p>Patrick stops as they pass each other. “What do you mean?” He plays dumb.</p><p>Sharpy’s eyes narrow, searching. “You went in there and showered like five minutes ago. Then you came out and went in again. And now you’re going back in <i>again</i>. What are you up to? Where’s Bur?”</p><p>“I don’t know.” </p><p>“I don’t believe you,” Sharpy says. He has his official suspicious face on, the one he uses when he’s executing or sniffing out a prank.</p><p>Patrick’s grateful this is where Sharpy’s mind went. It’s less… incriminating than what was almost happening.</p><p>“Where’s Tazer?” Sharpy asks and Patrick feels his heart catapult up into his throat.</p><p>“Why would I know? I’m not his keeper!” He doesn’t mean for his voice to jump the way it does, giving him a momentary flashback to the awkward days of middle school puberty. He coughs and evens out his expression. He’s got this. He’s cool. Sharpy doesn’t know what Patrick doesn’t tell him and Patrick will not break under the scrutiny.</p><p>“You’re up to something. I can smell it.”</p><p>“Does it smell like grapefruit body wash from Sephora? Because that’s what I forgot and was going back in there for.”</p><p>Sharpy doesn’t look convinced. “That explains this time. What about the time before?”</p><p>Fuck.</p><p>If this were a better plan, Patrick would’ve constructed an excuse, multiple excuses even, for this very possibility. He coughs once more and tries to come up with something believable in ten seconds.</p><p>Thinking.</p><p>Thinking…</p><p>Thinking……</p><p>This is what he deserves for trying to peep on Jonny in the showers. This is God punishing him for being a dumbass.</p><p>He lets out a guilty breath, ready to confess his sins when someone clears their throat behind him.</p><p>“You guys really need to stand right in front of the doorway or can I get by?” Jonny asks.</p><p>“Yes, we’re conducting business,” Sharpy says curtly. “Move along.”</p><p>Jonny rolls his eyes and pushes by Patrick, his hand moving to the small of Patrick’s back and nudging him forward slightly so Jonny can slip behind him. He feels Jonny’s chest brush against his shoulder, bare skin on bare skin.</p><p>“Were you looking for this?”Jonny says, throwing Patrick his bottle of body wash. “Saw you leave it in there earlier.”</p><p>Patrick laughs, he can’t help himself. “I did. Thanks.” </p><p>He watches Jonny walk off, water droplets clinging to his skin and the ends of his hair, the towel tight around his waist as he turns the corner. Patrick realizes now he’s looking, he’s looking too much. He snaps his head back to Sharpy and holds up the bottle for him to see. “Told ya.”</p><p>Sharpy gives him a long, searching once over. He’s hunting for cracks, for breaks, for a weakness somewhere in Patrick’s expression or his story, or both. Patrick stares back at him and smiles, ignoring the way the skin above his lip is beginning to perspire. Sharpy’s tried a few times now to get to him, make him blow up, prank him until he loses it. But Patrick grew up with three sisters and sisters are experts at psychological warfare. Patrick. Never. Breaks.</p><p>“I’m gonna find out what you’re up to, Kaner,” he says, eyes so narrowed that they’re almost slits</p><p>“You do that.” Patrick mimics him, then walks off. He’s sweating and his chest is ready to explode, and nobody knows but him.</p><p>He’s got this.</p><p>*</p><p>He absolutely does not got this.</p><p>After practice two days later, when they’re soaking in one of the hot tubs together back  at the UC, Jonny levels him with a stare. Patrick never knows what these stares mean exactly, but Jonny does them enough that he’s started to realize they mean some kind of mood shift.</p><p>“What?” he says when Jonny hasn’t blinked for over two minutes. He has to curb the desire to run a wet hand through his curls. They’d just turn frizzy and flat.</p><p>Jonny’s across the tub from him, arms and legs spread out, taking up as much room as possible. “What was Sharpy grilling you about the other day?”</p><p>Well, shit.</p><p>Patrick hadn’t counted on Jonny picking up any weird vibes from that encounter. He should have; Jonny’s more observant than he sometimes seems.</p><p>But it’s fine. It’s cool. He’ll just keep it vague.</p><p>“Nothing,” he says. Easy.</p><p>Jonny’s mouth purses. “Well that’s not true.”</p><p>Scratch vague. Try a version of the truth.</p><p>“He thought I was pulling some prank on him. He’s just paranoid because he’s always sneaking around everyone else. He thinks anyone doing anything out of the ordinary means they’re coming for him next.”</p><p>Jonny huffs out a quiet laugh. “It’s what he deserves.”</p><p>Patrick’s so relieved Jonny's taken the bait he doesn’t register what Jonny says for a moment. When he does, he snorts.</p><p>“It is!” Jonny states, serious as ever.</p><p>He’s a ridiculous fucking human.</p><p>Patrick raises his arm, placating. “Hey, I agree. He brings this shit on himself.”</p><p>“He does.” Jonny calms, settling back down. “So what were you doing out of the ordinary?”</p><p>If Jonny could just let this go, that would be amazing. It’d actually make Patrick’s entire day. He looks away, studying the light blue wall where his clothes are folded in a neat pile on the wood bench at the other end of the room. Beside his clothes are Jonny’s, thrown haphazardly on the floor and the bench, landing wherever he happened to drop them as he took them off. It shouldn’t bother Patrick what Jonny does with his clothes. If he wants to treat his shit like garbage, that’s on him.</p><p>He notices Jonny’s boxer briefs are Saxx today.</p><p>“Are you hungry?” Patrick deflects. “I didn’t get to finish my breakfast because the meeting started early and I’m fucking starving. Let’s stop somewhere.”</p><p>“It’ll make us late for our naps.”</p><p>“No, it won’t. We can get it to go.”</p><p>“Fine,” Jonny relents. “What do you want?”</p><p>“Korean?” Patrick asks. Jonny’s already shaking his head.</p><p>“Japanese.”</p><p>“That’s what you always say.”</p><p>“We could do salads instead?” he offers, like he’s Patrick’s fucking nutritional advisor. </p><p>“Oh my god. You’re a fun sucker. Okay, Japanese.”</p><p>He pushes out of the water, finished with soaking now that the idea of food is in his mind. His stomach is rumbling and Jonny’s getting on his nerves. He wants a full belly and a warm bed.</p><p>“You gonna answer my question?” Jonny asks. He leverages himself out of the hot tub, water sloughing off of him, down his abs and thighs. He’s wearing plain trunks, like Patrick, but they’re stuck tight to his crotch, forming to the shape of his dick and balls.</p><p>“About?” Patrick asks and can hear the strange rasp in his own voice. </p><p>He looks at Jonny’s face and Jonny looks down at him and their eyes catch and hold.</p><p>Patrick swallows.</p><p>He takes a seat on the bench and ducks his head down, fidgeting with his hands, his fingertips wrinkled like Sunsweet dates.</p><p>His eyes flicker over. Away. Over again. Away. </p><p>It doesn’t count.</p><p>It’s just…</p><p>From what he can tell Jonny’s dick doesn’t look bigger than the average dick. Or, well, Patrick doesn’t really know what the average dick looks like; he hasn’t seen that many dicks in his life. But he can tell it’s not much bigger than his own, soft. It definitely isn’t some cockzilla in disguise.</p><p>Jonny says something to him but Patrick’s too distracted shifting his eyes between the wall and Jonny’s body to hear it. He glances again, just to make sure he’s really seeing what he thinks he’s seeing, but nope. No change.</p><p>Something twists unpleasantly inside him and he tries to understand why he feels disappointed.</p><p>What does he care if Jonny’s not - if it was just a lie?</p><p>He doesn’t care. He certainly doesn’t feel betrayed. That would be insane.</p><p>“<i>Kaner</i>,” Jonny says this time, stern, and Patrick’s head snaps up.</p><p>What were they talking about? Oh yeah, Sharpy.</p><p>“I wasn’t doing anything. I was going back to get my body wash. The one you handed to me. That’s it.”</p><p>Jonny’s head tilts to the side, assessing. “You came in and out twice.”</p><p>He noticed that? Patrick’s learned a valuable lesson from this experience and it’s that he’d be a horrible spy and an even worse ninja. Cross it off the list of possible future professions.</p><p>“Well, I, um. I didn’t see it,” Patrick says, pulling his towel off the hook above his pile of clothes, and begins to dry off. Jonny does the same, except one of his feet is standing on his shirt, getting it sopping wet.</p><p>For a brief second it seems like Jonny’s about to drop his trunks right here and get naked, give Patrick an actual view of him completely without clothes. He feels his eyes widening as Jonny bends down...</p><p>Bends down and picks up his wet shirt, wrings it out, and throws it on the bench. He flips his towel over his shoulder and slips on his Under Armour slides.</p><p>“Forgot what stall you showered in after five minutes?”</p><p>Patrick sighs. “I was preoccupied.”</p><p>“With?”</p><p>If he’s not going to get naked, Patrick wishes he’d get dressed so they can go pick up food. His stomach rumbles.</p><p>“Um, stuff,” he tries.</p><p>“Stuff?” Jonny asks.</p><p>“Yes. Stop being nosy.”</p><p>“Okay,” Jonny says, earnest, eyes big and dark. “Didn’t mean to push.”</p><p>“Yes you did.”</p><p>A warm hand touches Patrick’s shoulder, squeezes, and then falls away, Jonny’s fingers trailing down his bicep. “I’m here if you need to talk. Even if it’s not hockey…<i>stuff</i>.”</p><p>Patrick almost laughs, realizing Jonny believes he’s troubled over something in his life, and not, in fact, being purposefully unclear to avoid the utter awkwardness of explaining what was actually happening that day.</p><p>It’s the first time Patrick understands what Savvy saw in Jonny to make him captain. He’s never questioned Jonny deserving the C, but he didn’t let himself think about it either. There were too many other concerns running through his head their rookie year and he was focused on playing well, keeping his points up, proving he had a shot at winning the Calder trophy. Jonny seemed like the obvious choice, but that’s what everyone else was saying too. It hits Patrick now why it was so obvious, why Savvy didn’t think twice about it.</p><p>His cheeks feel hot as he looks down, fiddling with the drawstring of his trunks. “I - okay. Thanks, Tazer.”</p><p>“No problem,” Jonny says.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2009</b>
</p>
<p>In March, Patrick meets up with Jonny to shoot a Chevy commercial. It involves wearing football pads under his jersey to look bigger and an excessive amount of bad acting, but at the end of it, Jonny offers to take Patrick out for an early dinner to make up for his birthday.</p>
<p>About half a year too late, he wants to tell Jonny on the drive over, but decides to let it go and fuck with Jonny in other ways. Like turning up the heat to an uncomfortable level and making him listen to Lady Gaga on the radio.</p>
<p>
  <i>I wanna kiss you. But if I do then I might miss you, babe. It's complicated and stupid. Got my ass squeezed by sexy Cupid.</i>
</p>
<p>Okay, he reconsiders that choice, turning it quickly to a Drake song instead.</p>
<p>Jonny doesn’t seem to notice.</p>
<p>Inside Morton’s, the atmosphere is low-lit and cozy, the hostess guiding them to a table in the corner as jazz plays lightly all around. In the daytime it’s a steakhouse just like any other; Patrick’s been here before with his family, with other teammates, and one memorable time with Jonny, his parents, and his brother. </p>
<p>At night, the setting feels wholly different, like a place a guy might bring a date.</p>
<p>Patrick takes a seat, back facing the rest of the room and shifts uncomfortably. Is this what it would be like to be on a date with Jonathan Toews? Is this where Jonny brings his dates? Who would even want to date Jonny and his stick-in-the-mud ass? A lonely Canadian farm girl, maybe. Or someone who lives in the woods and has no other options. A poor, sad fool, clearly.</p>
<p>He’s not going to think about it. He shakes his head and lets the thoughts drop out. Picking up his menu, his eyes scan up and down, skimming, seeing what looks good. He almost has to squint to see the words, the room is so dark, but at least this way there’s less of a chance of someone asking for an autograph.</p>
<p>Over the top of his menu he can see Jonny typing out a text on his new iPhone. He’s frowning down at the screen, displeased, probably unsure of how to work something on it because he can go to college, speak two languages, and lead an entire sports franchise at the age of twenty, but figuring out a cell phone? That’s too much to ask. </p>
<p>Patrick snorts as Jonny grumbles the words ‘piece of shit’ under his breath and is about to offer his help, because he’s benevolent and kind, when their waitress walks up to the table.</p>
<p>“Hi, welcome to Morton’s, my name is...Jon?” she asks, her perfectly shaped eyebrows rising. “Hi.”</p>
<p>Jonny’s head tilts up, surprise flashing over his face. “Oh. Hey, uh,” he pauses, eyes immediately flickering down to her nametag and back up again in a move so smooth Patrick wonders if he was the only one that caught it. “Casey. How are you doing?”</p>
<p>Casey’s smile, which was pleasant enough to begin with, transforms into genuine delight as she takes Jonny in. She’s tall and thin, her lips a bright red, her teeth an even brighter white, her skin entirely zit free.</p>
<p>How the hell is that possible?</p>
<p>Patrick showers twice a day and washes his face before bed and he still can’t get rid of the pimples on his chin and forehead.</p>
<p>Casey fiddles with the pen and notepad in her hands. “I’m good. It’s nice to see you again. Really nice.”</p>
<p>Jonny smiles back, his lips curved up, but the skin around his eyes is tight. “Yeah, you too.”</p>
<p>Is it though?</p>
<p>Jonny doesn’t seem pleased.</p>
<p>When nobody speaks for a beat he clears his throat and says, “Is, um, Snowball feeling better?” </p>
<p>Patrick bites at his lip to hold back a laugh. He almost wants to get his own phone out to record this trainwreck. </p>
<p>“She is! You’re so sweet for asking, thank you,” Casey says, cheerfully. “The vet said the cough was just part of a regular cat cold and he put her on antibiotics. It cleared up within like two weeks.”</p>
<p>Jonny nods, smile spreading thin. “That’s great.”</p>
<p>Patrick should help him out. Interject into the conversation, ask about dinner specials, but really it’s so much fun watching him struggle.</p>
<p>“I caught a few games recently and the team is doing so well this season. I’m a big fan by the way,” she says and finally looks in Patrick’s direction.</p>
<p>“Well, thanks.” Patrick grins, waiting for her to mention his spin-o-rama from last night, or maybe his incredible second-period top-shelf goal versus the Predators.</p>
<p>Instead, she turns back to Jonny and states, “And that goal during the Pittsburgh game was <i>so</i> amazing.”</p>
<p>And that hurts, just a little, deep down.</p>
<p>Jonny shrugs, chuckling smugly. “It was okay.”</p>
<p>“You’re too modest.” Casey reaches out, touching his shoulder, fingertips lingering.</p>
<p>Patrick chews the inside of his cheek. “Nah, he’s right, it was just okay.”</p>
<p>Jonny barks out a laugh, the skin around his eyes softening, even as he shoots Patrick an annoyed face. “See what I have to put up with?”</p>
<p>“I’m delightful,” Patrick says, mirroring the same expression back at him.</p>
<p>Jonny watches Patrick flatly, unmoving, like a challenge. His lip twitches, like he wants to smile, but won’t let himself. What a fucking bully. He knows Patrick’s strengths include many things, but one of them is decidedly not the staring game.</p>
<p>Jonny also knows Patrick is willing to play dirty to win and that’s what he does now, spreading the cheesiest, dopiest grin across his face to get under Jonny’s skin, to get him to crack.</p>
<p>“You guys are cute,” Casey cuts in, quieter this time. “Anyway, I’m sorry. Can I take your drink order?”</p>
<p>Patrick turns to her automatically, without thinking, and realizes he just lost.</p>
<p>Goddammit!</p>
<p>Across from him, Jonny orders a water for himself and a water with lemon for Patrick; he looks extremely thrilled with himself. Casey writes this down, promises to return with some bread, and disappears.</p>
<p>Patrick isn’t sad to see her go.</p>
<p>“A friend?” he asks, approximately thirty seconds after they’re left alone again. He counts it as an admirable feat.</p>
<p>“Something like that,” Jonny mumbles, going back to his phone.</p>
<p>“What’s that mean?”</p>
<p>“It means it’s none of your business.”</p>
<p>“Oh, c’mon,” Patrick presses. “You know I don’t care. Just tell me.”</p>
<p>Finishing whatever he was doing on his phone, Jonny clicks off the screen and puts it back on the table, facedown. “Seems like you care a lot. Do you want to get an appetizer?”</p>
<p>“This Mediterranean octopus dish looks good. And you know what I mean. The more you don’t want to tell me, the more I want to know.”</p>
<p>Jonny hums. “Seabs said the Tomahawk is the best steak here. I think I’m going with that for my entree.”</p>
<p>“Jonny.”</p>
<p>Jonny sighs. “She was a one night stand. Sort of.”</p>
<p>“Sort of?”</p>
<p>“Are we here to eat or for you to grill me on shit that happened over the bye week?” Jonny glares at him, tipping over from bothered to fully annoyed.</p>
<p>Patrick presses further. “Both, I think. Definitely both can be achieved.”</p>
<p>Jonny rolls his eyes and picks his phone back up. Patrick might’ve pushed too far and now he’s being ignored.</p>
<p>But really.</p>
<p>Jonny’s so ridiculous. Who the fuck has a half-ass one night stand? Apparently this guy. It’d almost make sense if Casey appeared in any way unimpressed with Jonny when she realized he was at the table, but she hadn’t. She’d lit up like the Fourth of July, fireworks beaming out of her eyes and each of her teeth glittering white sparklers. She looked half a second away from hopping in his lap and begging him to take her home tonight.</p>
<p>He knew the name of this chick’s cat.</p>
<p>Like.</p>
<p>Whatever.</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t care. Much. He smacks his menu shut and lets out a long breath and realizes Casey has 100% seen Jonny’s dick. She knows the full dick situation. The Dickuation.</p>
<p>The information is almost within his grasp, but he can’t quite reach it. To be fair the answer has been physically located on Jonny’s body from the start, but that hasn’t helped Patrick either. He wonders if he could ask for another waiter, just so he doesn’t have to see her chiclet teeth and pretty face again. </p>
<p>There’s no other reason.</p>
<p>“What did you do over the bye week, Kaner?” Jonny asks pointedly.</p>
<p>“Hung out. Skated,” he says, then pauses and adds, “Hooked up. A lot.”</p>
<p>It’s a lie. He slept with no girls and only met two. One of whom told him drunkenly she’d always wanted to fuck a hockey player, but he’s pretty sure she didn’t even know his name, only that he played for the Blackhawks.</p>
<p>“Mmm,” Jonny grunts. He picks up his glass of water and takes a drink, impassive.</p>
<p>“Had ‘em lined up at my door,” Patrick says, watching Jonny’s throat work as he downs the whole water in one go.</p>
<p>“I bet.”</p>
<p>“You don’t believe me? I can bring up the numbers I got.”</p>
<p>That’s only half a lie. He has a collection of numbers he’s gotten from girls, but they’re mostly Hawks fans he’s crossed paths with on the streets of Chicago over the last year, less from clubs in Chicago, and only three from girls he met in January.</p>
<p>Jonny shakes his head, presses his lips together. “I’m good. Do you know what you’re getting?”</p>
<p>Patrick glances at his shut menu. “Yeah, the bison filet.”</p>
<p>“Cool,” he says and waves Casey back over.</p>
<p>They give her their order and then Jonny quickly changes the subject to the upcoming Kings game and the power play woes. Patrick’s only too happy to talk hockey and think about nothing else; he goes along with it without resistance.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The whole of March is shitty. They lose more games than they win and everyone is in a bad mood, it rains too much in Chicago, and Sharpy won’t quit picking at Jonny until it seems like he’s in a pissy mood from sunrise to sunset.</p>
<p>Patrick isn’t expecting to wake up one morning to find Jonny doing push-ups on the hotel floor in nothing but his underwear, but that’s where he finds him, quietly counting to himself as he goes down, up, down, up, right there half in front of Patrick’s fucking bed.</p>
<p>There are little crusties in the corner of Patrick’s eyes and he’s not absolutely sure if he’s still sleeping or awake. This would be a weird dream if he were sleeping. The reality somehow makes more sense. He rubs his eyes and listens to Jonny grunt and pant as he gets to the end of a rep.</p>
<p>Dazedly he’s peering at Jonny from behind his bed covers. He tries to hold back a yawn and wonders if Jonny would stop working out if he knew Patrick was awake. Has he always been exercising almost naked in their room? Has Patrick been sleeping through this for months, unaware?</p>
<p>Jonny pushes up into a sitting position, takes a drink of water from the closest plastic bottle he hasn’t chucked toward the trash can and lies down, beginning to start a repetition of sit ups. From this angle Patrick can see his tight boxer briefs molded to his crotch, his dick and balls moving up and down as does the rest of Jonny’s upper body.</p>
<p>Patrick rubs his eyes again.</p>
<p>It looks bigger today than the last time he saw it up close. But that can’t be.</p>
<p>If he’s counting distance, he’s farther away from the dick than the dick was to him the afternoon they sat in the hot tub. So logically it would look smaller from where he’s sitting. Patrick’s mentally gauging the space between them in inches when Jonny finishes his last sit up and stands. He grabs the nearest t-shirt and wipes the sweat from his forehead.</p>
<p>“You want the shower first or can I take it?” he asks. He looks right at Patrick.</p>
<p>His cheeks are flushed. His whole chest is…</p>
<p>Patrick reaches for the TV remote on the night stand by Jonny’s bed and turns on the television.  It’s supposed to rain today, right? Gotta check up on that. Make sure if it’s going to be humid so he wears enough hair gel.</p>
<p>Oh, look, partly cloudy and windy. He’s safe.</p>
<p>Phew!</p>
<p>“Kaner?”</p>
<p>Patrick keeps his eyes on the TV screen. “Um. Uh, you can - you can go.”</p>
<p>Jonny nods and disappears into the bathroom a minute later. On the morning news, a report about the balloon boy stunt being a hoax comes on and Patrick watches it out of morbid curiosity. It takes him another few beats to realize the bathroom door has been left ajar, only halfway closed and the shower running.</p>
<p>Did he mean to do that?</p>
<p>Maybe not. Maybe he closed it and the door didn’t latch. Patrick turns back to the TV and ignores the sounds of Jonny moving around in the shower. </p>
<p>Mostly.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>It happens again the next week and then again a few days later as April rolls around. Each time the door to the bathroom is left slightly more ajar. Or, well, Patrick thinks this is what’s happening. He hasn’t actually pulled out a fucking ruler yet to measure it, but the thought has crossed his mind.</p>
<p>It’s fine.</p>
<p>It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t mean anything. Jonny’s just being Jonny, treating every space he encounters like it’s automatically his and his to own. That’s all. </p>
<p>Patrick could walk into the bathroom right now and nothing would happen. Jonny wouldn’t care. Patrick wouldn’t-</p>
<p>He has to stop thinking about this.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The playoffs are enough of a distraction that everything else blessedly, beautifully falls away. Everything is hockey and nothing else matters. </p>
<p>Going against Calgary in Patrick’s first playoff series isn’t nearly as nerve-wracking as he expected it to be. He feels ill through the first half of game one, and then he settles in, geared up, ready to play like it’s just any other night of hockey he wants to win.</p>
<p>Jonny’s so locked in for game two Patrick isn’t sure he’s blinked in three hours. The air in the locker room during intermission feels charged, alive. Patrick shivers with the anticipation of it all, the game tied at one when Jonny goes out during the second period and scores not one, but two goals.</p>
<p>There’s a heat stirring in his belly. </p>
<p>He ignores it.</p>
<p>They win the Calgary series, picking up momentum and decimating them in games five and six. The Vancouver series starts off rougher, but as the team takes game four, then five, Patrick knows they’ve got this in the motherfucking bag too.</p>
<p>He tries not to get excited.</p>
<p>He knows they have to get through the Conference Finals before they get to even glimpse the idea of maybe winning the cup. </p>
<p>“We’re just taking it one game at a time,” Jonny tells the media. It’s what he always says to them; it’s practically tattooed into Patrick’s brain, he's heard him say it so many times in the last few months. And he knows it’s true, too.</p>
<p>Just one game at a time. Just one game.</p>
<p>They drop the first two against Detroit and Patrick holds out hope. They win the third and he thinks, maybe. They lose game four, then five, and suddenly it’s over. The promise of what could’ve been is gone.</p>
<p>Patrick’s never felt so close to something so immense and had it dissolve just as quickly in his hands.</p>
<p>On the ice, Jonny’s head is bowed, his jaw clamped shut tight enough Patrick thinks he might crack his teeth. There’s no thinking as Patrick skates up to him and pulls Jonny into a hug, wrapping his arm around Jonny’s neck.</p>
<p>His eyes are wet.</p>
<p>Fuck.</p>
<p>It hurts. It’s devastating in a way he can’t even put words to.</p>
<p>He pushes his forehead against Jonny’s, their helmets clacking, and tries to catch his breath.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” he says.</p>
<p>Jonny exhales a shaky breath. “Next time,” he says. Just that. A promise.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The best part about the off-season is hanging with the boys in Buffalo. Going back home always feels a little like time traveling. Everyone else his age is either in college or scraping by working crappy part time jobs at auto shops and retail outlets. They’re just getting started while Patrick’s already living his dream job. It’s hard not to feel guilty about it, like he owes it to them to take them out drinking and partying to make up for not being around more, for having accomplished his dream so swiftly.</p>
<p>The side effect of being constantly busy entertaining his friends is that he has almost zero time to think about dicks.</p>
<p>His brain becomes a dick-free zone.</p>
<p>In August, he meets a girl named Aubrey through Erica and they spend a few weeks messing around before she heads back to school on the West Coast.</p>
<p>“Think you’ll keep in contact?” Erica asks him the day after she leaves.</p>
<p>He’s in his old bedroom at his parents’ house, occasionally eyeing his empty luggage and trying to find the motivation to pack. He’ll have to head back to Chicago to begin the next level of training soon if he wants to be ready for camp in September.</p>
<p>“Nah,” he says. He’s playing a game on his phone, face half-obscured by the pillow he’s laying on. He doesn’t see the shoe that hits him in the stomach coming.</p>
<p>“Asshole.”</p>
<p>“Hey!”</p>
<p>“She really liked you,” Erica scolds him.</p>
<p>“What do you want me to do? She goes to school in Cali and I work in Chicago. Jesus.”</p>
<p>Erica frowns. “I don’t know. Just don’t be a fucker about it.”</p>
<p>Patrick’s about to reply with something that will absolutely hurt her feelings when his phone chimes, alerting him he has a new message from: Tazerrrrr.</p>
<p>They haven’t talked most of the summer, besides a handful of texts here and there. It’s been. Well, okay, it’s been Patrick’s fault.</p>
<p>He’ll cop to that one.</p>
<p>It’s just. The Detroit series took longer for him to get over than he’d initially anticipated and it’d been easier at the time to not think about or engage with anything or anyone hockey-related than to deal with the pain of losing head-on. When Jonny texted to ask how he was doing back in June, Patrick sent him a few flippant texts back saying he was good, no worries. In July, Jonny mentioned that he, Sharpy, Duncs, and Seabs were all meeting up in Thunder Bay for a long weekend to hang by the lake and did Patrick want to come?</p>
<p>Patrick hadn’t answered.</p>
<p>He got a few concerned texts from Seabs and Sharpy, until he replied saying he was busy. Jonny hadn’t texted him again, not for a solid month.</p>
<p>No, he didn’t count the days. Not exactly. </p>
<p>And now today, no words, just a picture of Jonny on some cliff where the weather looks tropical and warm, palm trees in the background and the ocean presumably below. He’s smiling at the camera, wearing a pair of blue striped trunks and blue flip flops, chest bare and hair wet like he was recently in the water. He’s also got a pair of sunglasses on so his eyes are covered.</p>
<p>Erica leans over to see what Patrick’s looking at and snatches his phone straight out of his hand.</p>
<p>“Oh, wow,” she says, whistling. “Hello.”</p>
<p>“Fuck off.” He tries to reach for his phone and she turns away.</p>
<p>“You didn’t tell me Jonny looks like this under all of his hockey gear.”</p>
<p>“What’s there to tell?” Patrick says. He reaches for his phone again, arm still by his side and then shooting out in a surprise move to catch Erica off guard. </p>
<p>She’s too quick, jumping back and away, laughing. “That he’s hot as hell? I’m sending this to myself. I have to show Kelsey and Heather.”</p>
<p>“Give me my fucking phone before I come over there and make you,” Patrick grits out.</p>
<p>This game isn’t fun anymore.</p>
<p>The thought of Erica sharing Jonny’s picture with her friends and them giggling over his dumb abs and low slung trunks has Patrick suddenly in the foulest mood.</p>
<p>“What if I called him?” Erica grins, gleefully. “You think maybe he’d take me out sometime?”</p>
<p>Patrick jumps up from his bed and launches himself at her.</p>
<p>“Mom!” Erica screams and scrambles out of his room.</p>
<p>Eventually, he wrestles the phone out of her hand on the kitchen floor, Dad yelling at them to keep it down, golf is on.</p>
<p>That night, Patrick stares at Jonny’s picture before falling asleep, zooming in and out, his fingers swiping in closer, then farther away, closer, farther, closer, farther.</p>
<p>He doesn’t send Jonny a reply.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Two nights before the team is due to arrive in Notre Dame for training camp, Duncs invites a bunch of the boys over to his place to catch up and watch Sunday afternoon football. The drinks and snacks are all mostly lame health foods because it’s that time of year. Patrick’s munching on a dry carrot stick, thinking dreamily of ranch sauce when Jonny walks in.</p>
<p>“Seabsie boy!” Jonny bellows, voice deep and hyped up.</p>
<p>A chorus of enthusiastic shouts greet him, a few guys jumping up to smack his back or give him a quick hug as they pull him into the room. Almost immediately Jonny launches into the story of how he spent his summer, commanding everyone’s attention as usual. </p>
<p>Patrick keeps his head down, focused on the fantasy football app he’s been screwing with for the last half hour. His team is almost complete if he can just figure out which kicker to pick. </p>
<p>“What was her name?” Bur asks.</p>
<p>“Robbie,” Jonny says.</p>
<p>“That’s a weird name for a girl,” Bolly says.</p>
<p>Jonny laughs. “I guess so.”</p>
<p>Patrick stuffs the rest of his carrot stick in his mouth and crunches down on it twice before he swallows. A particularly big chunk gets caught in the back of his throat and he coughs and coughs and coughs some more, until the group around Jonny has quieted down and turned to look at him.</p>
<p>“You good, kid?” Sharpy looks up at him, worried, like he’s ready to jump in if Patrick needs CPR.</p>
<p>“Sorry. It’s cool,” Patrick chokes out and escapes from the room.</p>
<p>He hides out in the kitchen for a while, downing a bottle of Gatorade and not listening to the rest of Jonny’s <i>amazing</i> summer spent in Bora Bora or wherever the fuck. Probably learning to windsurf and fucking tourists who look like Sports Illustrated models while Patrick stayed at home in Buffalo and played beer league hockey.</p>
<p>Patrick had a great summer, okay. He doesn’t need to go somewhere flashy to have a good time. Wherever Patrick is, that’s the good time!</p>
<p>Eventually the Bears game begins. They’re playing the Bills, and if Patrick doesn’t want to miss it, he has to return to the group. He finds his way back into the living room and takes one of the few open seats left in the middle of one of the couches. He’s smooshed between Buff and Bicks, a small guy between two large ones, but at least Jonny’s at the opposite end of the room chatting with Hammer.</p>
<p>He doesn’t look at Patrick once the whole night. Doesn’t even acknowledge Patrick is here, that he’s present in the room, or that he exists.</p>
<p>It’s better this way.</p>
<p>It’s good.</p>
<p>It’s fine.</p>
<p>Totally fine.</p>
<p>As he’s walking out to his car after the game is over and everyone is beginning to take off, he feels an arm brush against his shoulder as someone passes him.</p>
<p>“Hey, Kaner,” Jonny says. He tips his chin up in a swift nod and then continues on.</p>
<p>“Hi,” Patrick says. Although he isn’t sure Jonny heard him.</p>
<p>He never looked back.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The first two days of training camp are garbage. Patrick’s playing well enough, he’s holding his own against the newer guys and the rookies, keeping up with the vets, but when Q puts him back on Jonny’s line for the scrimmage, all he gets is the cold shoulder. </p>
<p>They share a room at the nearest hotel, just like they do on the road, and Jonny’s not exactly silent, but he’s not talkative either. In the past, Patrick would have to put headphones on at times to get Jonny to shut up if he had something he wanted to say, and Jonny often has a lot of things he wants to say in Patrick’s experience.</p>
<p>Now it’s one word answers and him turning off the light to go to bed at eight sharp.</p>
<p>He’s not fooling anyone.</p>
<p>Patrick can see him turned toward the wall, the light of his phone a small glow illuminating his head and the curve of his naked shoulder.</p>
<p>On the third day, they do nothing but bicker and fight.</p>
<p>“Stop waiting for me to set you up and pass the fucking puck,” Jonny yells.</p>
<p>“I was open in the slot, why the hell would I pass to you? That doesn’t make any goddamn sense,” Patrick shouts back at him.</p>
<p>“Do you guys need a time out?” Steeger asks, prompting several chuckles from across the bench.</p>
<p>Jonny sends Steeger a piercing glare and Steeger, ever the clown, pats Jonny condescendingly on the shoulder, like a child. “Oooh, somebody’s touchy.”</p>
<p>“Shut the fuck up,” Jonny grunts, shrugs off his hand, and turns back to look out at the scrimmage.</p>
<p>The red team beats the white and Patrick’s in a better mood, despite the earlier fighting, by the end of the day. He did excellently on all of his fitness tests and Pauly even said he was happy with the progress Patrick made over the summer bulking up. He may have only put on seven pounds of muscle and it may be barely noticeable when Patrick takes his shirt off, but dammit, he’s proud of himself.</p>
<p>His good mood is ruined when Jonny comes back into their room after dinner and skulks around, grouchy and loud without even saying one word.</p>
<p>“What’s up your ass?” Patrick asks.</p>
<p>“Nothing,” Jonny huffs. He’s digging in one of his bags, looking for what, Patrick can’t even guess. He isn’t finding it, that’s obvious.</p>
<p>“Really? Then why are you stomping around?”</p>
<p>“Don’t worry about it.”</p>
<p>Patrick sighs.</p>
<p>He knows he deserves this for blowing Jonny off all summer with no explanation and no apology, but how can he apologize for ignoring Jonny when Patrick doesn’t have the first clue why he did it?</p>
<p>It hurts his brain to think about too much.</p>
<p>“Jon,” he says, watching Jonny pace around the room like a rabid animal. He’s been in motion for the last hour.</p>
<p>“What, Kaner?”</p>
<p>Patrick bites at his bottom lip. “What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>Jonny freezes where he’s crouched on the ground, digging through another one of his duffle bags. His back is to Patrick, but his head turns slightly, slowly to the side. “Oh, you wanna talk now?”</p>
<p>Ouch.</p>
<p>It would’ve stung less if Jonny would’ve just told him to fuck off. </p>
<p>Patrick ducks his head. He doesn’t know what to say.</p>
<p>They don’t speak for the rest of the night.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Upon arrival back in Chicago, Patrick digs out the flat square box from his office desk. It’s still gift-wrapped from when he bought it at the store and he writes a quick note on a folded piece of printer paper, attaching it with a piece of tape. </p>
<p>
  <i>Happy Very Belated Birthday. I had this back in April but kept forgetting to bring it with me to give to you. Just add it to my list of fuck ups.</i><br/>Missed you this summer.<br/>-PK
</p>
<p>He leaves it in Jonny’s locker for after practice.</p>
<p>When they’re finished and the media has asked their requisite number of questions, Patrick’s in the middle of a conversation with Skills about the trip to Helsinki at the beginning of the season when he sees Jonny pick up the box and read the message. He stares down at the little scrap of paper for a long time before he opens the lid of the box, a small smile curling up at the edges of his mouth. </p>
<p>“Gucci, eh?” Jonny asks, coming up behind Patrick as he enters the UC parking lot.</p>
<p>It’s the first time he’s looked at Patrick like normal since last spring.</p>
<p>The relief is next level intense.</p>
<p>Patrick has to take a deep breath. “I figured it was time you retired that piece of shit wallet you’ve been carrying around since you were sixteen,” he jokes to make up for the way his voice wavers.</p>
<p>“Seventeen,” Jonny corrects.</p>
<p>“You see my point.”</p>
<p>Jonny pulls the wallet from his pocket. It’s plain black, leather; on one side it has the Gucci label and on the other a monogrammed number nineteen. His thumb brushes over his number twice. “It’s not bad.”</p>
<p>Patrick scoffs. “Not bad?”</p>
<p>This fucking guy. </p>
<p>Jonny bumps their shoulders together as they walk. “Thanks, Patrick.”</p>
<p>It’s weird to hear his real name out of Jonny’s mouth. Unexpected.</p>
<p>A switch inside of him flips over and he has to pause for a second to stop himself from tripping.</p>
<p>“I, um. You’re welcome,” he murmurs softly, pleased. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Helsinki feels like a fever dream. He’s jet lagged and sluggish most of the time the Hawks are there, and the sightseeing he manages to do around all of his hockey related obligations is minimal at best. He'd be more disappointed about it if he weren’t glad to just be home, in his own bed, in the right timezone, back to his usual routine.</p>
<p>He did manage to put up two goals and two assists, though. </p>
<p>Not to brag or anything.</p>
<p>Jonny, on the other hand. Well, Jonny was a walking zombie for the entire trip, exhausted, grouchy about being exhausted, too exhausted to complain about being exhausted - which is how Patrick knew he was actually, truly, genuinely <i>exhausted</i>. Just another reason he’s glad they’re all back to their regularly scheduled programming.</p>
<p>Being forced to play Detroit the first game back in the States, after how the conference final ended, is a bitter pill to swallow. Losing to them so soon, again, is frustrating. The four-game win streak they go on after is a better distraction, but maybe not as much as Jonny recommencing his hotel room underwear workouts and open door showers.</p>
<p>“Kaner?” Jonny calls.</p>
<p>He’s in the bathroom, the sound of water raining against the tile loud throughout the rest of their shared space. Patrick’s head shoots up at the sound of his name, drawing his attention away from his phone.</p>
<p>He hesitates. “Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Can you bring me my shampoo? I left it in my bag.”</p>
<p>“Uh, sure,” Patrick says. </p>
<p>He wants to ask why Jonny doesn’t just use the hotel shampoo that’s already in there, but, to be honest, Patrick would rather be caught dead than putting that cheap trash in his own hair. So he has no legs to stand on.</p>
<p>The shampoo is surprisingly easy to find in Jonny’s chaotic mess of a bag. Nothing is folded and there’s too many balled up, rancid-smelling socks, empty water bottles, and various sweaty gym shorts for Patrick to want to investigate further.</p>
<p>He walks to the opening of the bathroom and stops.</p>
<p>The Dick is in that room.</p>
<p>Tonight could be the night he sees The Dick.</p>
<p>On a random Wednesday in early November at 10:35PM.</p>
<p>The glass door of the shower clicks and Jonny’s head pops through. “What’s taking so long?”</p>
<p>His hair is plastered to his head, water droplets sliding down his face, his neck, his chest, down to his belly and the soft patch of hair above his groin. Above his dick. The Dick. Patrick can see the base of him, skin surprisingly paler than everywhere else.</p>
<p>He blinks and drags his eyes up, up, up, until they’re staring at the ceiling, the plain beige-painted walls.</p>
<p>“Here you go,” he yells, and chucks the shampoo bottle in the general direction of Jonny’s face.</p>
<p>“Ow. The fuck?” he hears Jonny say as Patrick spins around and bolts out of there.</p>
<p>What’s the opposite of a cock block? A cock shock?</p>
<p>He’s overreacting.</p>
<p>It’s not a big deal.</p>
<p>Buff walks around the locker room free and swinging and Patrick’s never thought twice about it. This isn’t any different. A dick is a dick is a dick.</p>
<p>He doesn’t care.</p>
<p>Except when Jonny gets out the shower a few minutes later and walks over to his bed with nothing but a towel and asks, “You ready to sleep?”, Patrick breathes out a quick, “Okay,” and flips off the nearest light to him so fast the room is immediately plunged into darkness.</p>
<p>There’s some shuffling and the sound of the towel dropping to the floor and then…</p>
<p>And then he can hear the sheets being pulled back and Jonny sliding into bed.</p>
<p>He didn’t put boxers on, Patrick’s almost 92% sure of it. Just got into bed naked and is currently lying there naked five feet away.</p>
<p>Five feet from Patrick. Naked.</p>
<p>Who the fuck sleeps naked with a roommate? Only psychopaths, obviously. Patrick’s rooming with a crazy person. He’ll likely be murdered in the night. Strangled by a large, naked, golden-skinned man who leaves the door open while he showers, never washes his socks, and has striking black demon eyes.</p>
<p>Is it hot in here? It feels too hot in their room.</p>
<p>Patrick kicks off his comforter and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to sleep. He doesn’t have to think about anything if he’s asleep; he can be blessedly winning the Stanley Cup on a team where he’s the only player and no goalies ever stop him. </p>
<p>An hour passes, maybe two. Patrick’s limbs feel heavy, his eyelids drooping, but his mind won’t shut the hell off. He listens to Jonny’s dumb mouth-breathing and tries to let it lull him into a daze. It’s almost successful about thirty minutes later, but then he hears stirring in the bed over and sleep slips from his grasp.</p>
<p>Thanks for fucking it up, he almost says, his mouth about to form the words, when a soft whisper of a moan rises from the quiet and hits Patrick in the gut.</p>
<p>He’s flat on his back, facing the ceiling, when the soft swish of sheets moving accompanies another breathy exhale. It wouldn’t take any effort for Patrick to turn his head, unnoticed, and see what’s going on.</p>
<p>It can’t be a dream.</p>
<p>Patrick’s heard Jonny mumble and grunt in his sleep before and it’s never been like this: purposeful, a provocative sigh.</p>
<p>He turns his head before he overthinks it and sees Jonny facing away from him, toward the wall, the sheets low around his hips, but his arm is...moving. He’s touching himself. Right here, thinking Patrick’s asleep, and he’s jacking himself off in the middle of the night, hand slick enough on his dick Patrick can hardly hear skin slapping over skin.</p>
<p>He can’t tear his eyes away. Watching Jonny’s right arm work, the slow, rhythmic back and forth of it, the way his breathing intensifies as he reaches the peak and then blows his load, a low rumbling groan emanating from deep in his throat.</p>
<p>Patrick’s cock twitches against his thigh and he realizes his hand is cramping from where he’s been tightly fisting the pushed-away comforter.</p>
<p>He’s so fucked.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2009</b>
</p>
<p>There’s a short homestand before the circus trip and Patrick spends most of it being a good, wholesome boy and hanging out with his parents. His sisters are all still in school and can’t make it over, at least not until Christmas, so he plans a small pre-Thanksgiving, pre-birthday dinner.</p>
<p>“We should invite Jonathan out with us,” Mom says, out of the blue.</p>
<p>“No, we shouldn’t.” Patrick laughs.</p>
<p>This doesn’t have anything to do with the image that immediately flashes through Patrick’s mind when she mentions Jonny.</p>
<p>The hotel room. Jonny on the bed, turned away. His arm in motion, groaning.</p>
<p>No.</p>
<p>Nope.</p>
<p>He’s not thinking about it.</p>
<p>“Are his parents visiting too?” Mom asks. She’s on his laptop, checking out the menu for Chicago Cut.</p>
<p>“I have no idea.” He shrugs. </p>
<p>It’s not technically true, he remembers Jonny mentioning Andree and Bryan maybe stopping in before the team leaves. But he can’t see Jonny right before he’s about to be stuck in a room with him for eleven days straight. Not after what happened in Colorado. He needs a few days to...breathe.</p>
<p>The aforementioned night almost doesn’t feel real, like some hazy figment of his imagination. But if it isn’t real, then it was a thought floating through his head, a thing he was actively thinking about.</p>
<p>It has to be real.</p>
<p>“Let’s invite him then,” Mom says, pulling out her phone like she’s about to call Andree. </p>
<p>Oh god.</p>
<p>Patrick scrambles up from where he's sitting on the couch and pulls his own phone out. </p>
<p>“I’ll see if he’s busy,” he says, cutting her off. He walks to the other end of the room where he can’t be heard as well and pretends to type in a number. He holds his phone up to his ear and waits as if the other side of the phone is ringing.</p>
<p>Waiting.</p>
<p>Waiting.</p>
<p>Waiting.</p>
<p>“Hey, man! What’s uuuup? Are you free tomorrow?”</p>
<p>Appropriate pause.</p>
<p>Waiting.</p>
<p>Head nod.</p>
<p>“My parents are taking me out for dinner if you want to join.”</p>
<p>Waiting.</p>
<p>More head nodding.</p>
<p>Long sigh.</p>
<p>“Oh, you can’t? Because you have a thing? That’s cool! I get it. We all have...things. Yeah, I’ll see you at practice on Friday. K, bye!”</p>
<p>Press the end button. </p>
<p>Take a bow.</p>
<p>And the Oscar goes to -  Patrick Kane! Yes, he’d like to <i>not</i> thank his mother for helping to make this once-in-a-lifetime performance happen.</p>
<p>“What’d he say?” Mom asks, even though she was eavesdropping on the entire faux phone call.</p>
<p>Patrick frowns, playing up the disappointment. “He can’t. He has a thing.”</p>
<p>“A thing?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, a <i>thing</i>, you know?”</p>
<p>Mom squints at him like she really doesn’t know and she really wants to ask, but, for once, doesn’t. “Well, that’s too bad. I’ll go ahead and make the reservation.”</p>
<p>“Cool,” Patrick says, letting out a long breath.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“What are you doing? Seabs asks the day Patrick gets on the bus in Calgary to ride to the Saddledome arena.</p>
<p>“Sitting?” he says.</p>
<p>“You always sit in the back, on the left.”</p>
<p>This is true, but Jonny’s sitting back there and Patrick feels safer up here.</p>
<p>He shrugs, nonchalant. “Today I want to sit in the middle, on the right.”</p>
<p>Seabs smiles. “No.”</p>
<p>Patrick feels his brow furrow. “What do you mean, no?”</p>
<p>“The last time you sat in the middle of the bus, we lost in a blowout to Dallas. Go sit in the back. On the left.” He gestures at Patrick with his arm, a signal to get up and move along.</p>
<p>Apparently Seabs is the ruler of the bus now. Nobody told Patrick.</p>
<p>“I think I’m fine right here.”</p>
<p>Duncs, in the row behind Seabs, flashes him with a ‘you sure about that?’ look. Patrick flicks his eyes back to Seabs and receives a mirrored expression.</p>
<p>Is he sure? Not so much anymore.</p>
<p>“Kaner, I’ll pick you up and put you back there myself. Just go.”</p>
<p>From the corner of his eye, he can see Jonny in the second to back row, head tilted down and attention caught on something. Patrick’s usual seat behind him is still open. They don’t have assigned seats because they aren’t children on a field trip, but hockey players are notoriously superstitious about game day rituals and it begins as early as the bus ride for many. </p>
<p>Seabs has always been the most particular and specific about his own routine. He will not let anyone fuck up him or his vibe.</p>
<p>“Where I sit won’t affect how the game goes,” Patrick tries, one last weak attempt.</p>
<p>“Okay, I guess I can tape your stick for you tonight then, eh bud? Maybe be the last one off the ice during warm-ups?”</p>
<p>Even the suggestion makes Patrick’s skin crawl.</p>
<p>It’s not happening. He’s going to take this loss gracefully, stand up, and leave.</p>
<p>Duncs chuckles at him as he passes by and Patrick doesn’t even flip him off, or acknowledge him at all, that’s how well he’s sucking it up.</p>
<p>“On the <i>left!</i>” Seabs calls, a gentle reminder.</p>
<p>More laughter.</p>
<p>This time Patrick does throw him the bird, and anyone else who’s paying attention. Bunch of assholes. </p>
<p>As the cackling dies down, he takes the window seat in the row behind Jonny and stares out the window. He’s not going to look forward. There’s nothing to look at there. He checks his phone; he’s got a few new texts to respond to, and five emails waiting. He answers two before his interest wanes and he’s staring back out the window again.</p>
<p>When the fuck will the bus leave? If Laddy is holding them up again, Patrick’s going to hide his skate laces in the trash can.</p>
<p>His foot begins to tap against the floor as he jiggles his leg, restless. Eventually, Jonny cranes his neck around, shifting sideways in his seat until he can take Patrick in. He doesn’t even say anything, just gives Patrick a curious look, his dark eyes trailing over Patrick’s face.</p>
<p>“Sorry. Forgot my earphones at the hotel,” Patrick explains.</p>
<p>Jonny’s unasked question hangs between them, the air thick, and the silence heavier. Patrick has a few hundred dollar bills in his wallet and he wonders idly if he offers them to Jonny if Jonny will tell him what the hell he’s thinking.</p>
<p>He could open his mouth and ask, but he’d rather run into traffic.</p>
<p>“Here,” Jonny says after a long beat, offering Patrick one of his earphone buds.</p>
<p>Patrick has to turn until he’s sitting parallel with the two seats in his row, legs stretched out, to comfortably get the earphone hooked into his ear.</p>
<p>
  <i>Never made it as a wise man. I couldn't cut it as a poor man stealing.</i>
</p>
<p>“Nickelback? Really?” Patrick says, disgusted.</p>
<p>“So you don’t want to share?” </p>
<p>Jonny moves to take it back and Patrick covers his ear.</p>
<p>“No, I do,” he says, yielding.</p>
<p>“That’s what I thought.” Jonny grins.</p>
<p>By the time they get to the arena, Patrick’s lip-syncing with emotion to Photograph, cheeks flushed as Jonny cracks up beside him.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>There’s two days off in between the Oilers and the Canucks games. Patrick figures he’ll invite some of the guys out for dinner for his birthday, but once Sharpy realizes this is his twenty-first birthday, he ropes most of the team into going out to a club to celebrate. </p>
<p>“It’s your most important milestone, Kaner. You can’t not go out,” Bur explains.</p>
<p>“My most important?” Patrick asks, dubious.</p>
<p>“Your most important until you pass me in points,” Sharpy says, looping his arm around Patrick’s neck as they walk into The Roxy. “Not that you will.”</p>
<p>“Oh, I definitely will.” Patrick grins.</p>
<p>Sharpy squeezes his arm around Patrick’s neck, a tad playful, a pinch spiteful, choking Patrick until he pushes free. </p>
<p>“Let’s get you wasted, kid! I got the first drink. Bur, you got second?”</p>
<p>“I got second!” Bur shouts from behind them.</p>
<p>Somewhere in the crowd is Jonny. Patrick didn’t ride in the same taxi as him, but he saw him standing around with Seabs as they were all waiting to be picked up. He wants to hang back, let Jonny catch up with them so they can all have their first drink together, but no. No, this isn’t the time. If he sees Jonny, he might just blurt out what he saw earlier on Jonny’s phone when he was in the bathroom.</p>
<p>And look, Patrick might be curious, but he isn’t nosy;  he wouldn’t go sneaking through Jonny’s phone because he walked out of the room. His phone was just sitting there, on his night stand. When it began ringing, it was only normal for Patrick to check and see who it was, okay. Any normal, red-blooded human being would check too. It’s not like he unlocked the phone, or scrolled through some texts. He didn’t even touch the damn thing. Minding his own business, sitting on his own bed, and messing around on his own phone was what he was doing as Jonny’s phone began to ring, signaling he was receiving an incoming call. Patrick glanced over and saw it was a picture of a man in an ugly light purple polo and blond hair with an idiotic smile. The name flashing on the screen was Robbie.</p>
<p>Could mean nothing.</p>
<p>Somewhere someone knows multiple Robbies. Male and female. Jonny could be that someone.</p>
<p>Probably not. But maybe?</p>
<p>Unlikely.</p>
<p>But who knows?</p>
<p>Patrick knows that Jonny mentioned hooking up with a Robbie over the off-season. He wishes he didn’t.</p>
<p>“Pick your poison, birthday boy,” Sharpy says to him, but ostensibly more to the very tall bartender named Owen. “Just turned twenty-one.”</p>
<p>Owen seems unimpressed. “Nice. What can I get you?”</p>
<p>Patrick’s brain goes blank. There are so many more options when you’re not forced to drink whatever the of-age person ordering for you decides to buy. Too many options, to be honest. Does he want beer? Wine? No. Shots? “Lemon martini,” he spits out without thinking, buckling under the pressure.</p>
<p>Owen smirks. “You got it.”</p>
<p>Patrick turns to Sharpy and Bur, who are snickering. “Good choice, Sex in the City,” Sharpy says.</p>
<p>“Miranda would be proud,” Steeger pipes in.</p>
<p>Patrick would call Steeger out for knowing one of the characters’ names, but he’d just be fueling the fire. Instead he rolls his eyes and says, “Don’t be jealous. I’ll let you try it if you want.”</p>
<p>And that’s how five minutes later all four of them are sipping from their own lemon martini glasses, sitting together with the rest of the team as they guzzle down beer and mock them for their prissy drinks. By the third martini, Patrick doesn’t even care about their chirping anymore, feeling too light and floaty to care one way or another. </p>
<p>Jonny sits down at the table for a while, too far away for Patrick to hear what he and Hammer are talking about. The music is loud enough that it’s difficult to hear much of anyone talking unless they’re right by your side, the techno thumping through the building  enough to shake the walls. It serves Patrick’s purposes fine; he doesn’t want to talk, he wants to drink and not think. </p>
<p>Turning towards the crowd and the dancefloor he catches when Jonny gets up, heading back to the bar. There's a girl in a slinky red dress with long, curly, golden hair and rosy lips who’s been eyeing Patrick since he looked in her direction. She’s dancing mostly alone; there's another girl beside her in a pink mini skirt, but if they’re friends, they aren’t the kind that dance together.</p>
<p>Patrick feels someone touch his arm, dragging his attention away.</p>
<p>“Can I get you a refill?” a woman asks. She has on all black and a little apron wrapped around her waist, her smile bright in the darkness.</p>
<p>“Yeah, sure.” He smiles back. “I’ll take a Bud Light.”</p>
<p>“No problem. Anything else?”</p>
<p>She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, bats her lashes a few times. Patrick isn’t sure if she’s flirting or just doing her job really well.</p>
<p>“Yo, Sharpy, you need anything?” he calls.</p>
<p>“Soupy wants a lemon martini too!”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs. “Maybe another two lemon martinis too.”</p>
<p>“Of course. My name’s Lelani, just let me know if you need something.” </p>
<p>“Thanks,” Patrick tells her and feels her brush against his arm as she walks by.</p>
<p>He shoots the shit with Skills while he waits for his drink to arrive. When it comes, Lelani sets a napkin down on the table, his bottle on top of that, before she disappears again. It takes Patrick a second to realize there’s a phone number written on the napkin next to Lelani’s name and a scribbled heart.</p>
<p>The guys around him that notice spend the next half hour ribbing him until a group of girls come up to their table and ask if he’s, like, the real Patrick Kane and then the teasing starts anew, full force.</p>
<p>“You gonna take anyone back to the hotel, little ladies’ man?” Bur asks.</p>
<p>“Why? You jealous?” Patrick asks, smirking. “No luck tonight?”</p>
<p>“Who needs luck when I look like this?” Bur says, cocky as ever. “Gimme five minutes and you’ll see.”</p>
<p>He stands, moving toward the dance floor, enacting some half-drunk version of the moonwalk like he thinks that makes him look slick, and Patrick catches the eye of the girl in the red dress again. She smiles at him, swaying her hips in what looks like an invitation.</p>
<p>“Where’s Jonny?” Patrick asks the table. He hasn’t seen him come back after leaving for the bar for over an hour now.</p>
<p>“I don’t know. I think he went to get a drink,” Bicks says.</p>
<p>Rude.</p>
<p>He can’t even be bothered to hang with Patrick on his own birthday. Kind of like last year. Except then he had the excuse of being deathly ill. Now he’s just being selfish.</p>
<p>Fuck him.</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t need him to have fun. He’s got the whole team here, he’s gotten three separate phone numbers from pretty girls, he’s got a delicious lemon martini, he’s good to go. He’s great.</p>
<p>“You should go dance with her,” Sharpy says, bumping an elbow into his arm.</p>
<p>“Who?” Patrick asks.</p>
<p>“Red Dress over there. She’s been eye-fucking you all night. Probably your best shot to get laid.” He laughs like he made a funny joke and Patrick makes a face at him.</p>
<p>But.</p>
<p>Sharpy has a point. Maybe she is interested in dancing with him at least, and it’s better than sitting here with this group of drunk losers talking about the Preds vs. Blues game they were watching earlier. Patrick has opinions about it, many opinions, and some stats to back up those opinions, except now is the time for dancing, and not arguing about Corsi. </p>
<p>He downs his beer, pops up out of his seat, and strides over to Red Dress like he knows what he’s doing. He does! He does know what he’s doing. He and his sisters would have karaoke parties in the living room every Friday while he was growing up and Patrick always got the award for best dancing. No contest. He’s got the moves.</p>
<p>It’s just figuring out how to use them with another person now.</p>
<p>Can’t be that hard. </p>
<p>A particularly loud song comes on, the beat so deep Patrick can hear the thump of it inside his brain. He slides up next to Red Dress, taps her shoulder, and has to shout as he says, “HEY!”</p>
<p>She turns around, her face lighting up as she takes him in. “HI! I’M NICKI.”</p>
<p>“NICE TO MEET YOU, NICKI.”</p>
<p>Her forehead scrunches up, she cocks her head. “WHAT?”</p>
<p>Patrick cups a hand around his mouth. “I SAID NICE TO MEET YOU.”</p>
<p>She looks even more confused. “WHAT?”</p>
<p>“NOTHING,” he yells and pulls her close.</p>
<p>“COOL!” She shrugs. </p>
<p>She seems happy to let it go, spinning and sliding her back against his front, easy as that. They begin a slow grind as the song kicks into full gear, not so much dancing as rubbing their bodies together. It feels good to have someone touch him with purpose after two months of just his hand for company. Tonight would be a good night to get lucky, and it certainly looks like things are moving that way with Nicki as she leans her head back on his shoulder and undulates against him.</p>
<p>Her little red dress rides up her tan thighs and Patrick can almost imagine them around his waist as he presses her down to the mattress. Maybe she’s a screamer. Maybe she’ll scream Patrick’s name really loud. And the entire hotel will hear her and know how excellent he is in bed. A master. Best on the team, on ice, and in the sheets. He’ll walk downstairs in the morning to a standing ovation.</p>
<p>Sharpy will say, “Wow, kid, you destroyed her.”</p>
<p>“I’m so proud,” Bur will cry, real tears streaming down his face. “I could never.”</p>
<p>Confetti will appear from the ceiling and fall down on him in a cascade of color and congratulations. It’ll be beautiful. He’ll just have to make sure Jonny knows the room is off-limits for the rest of the night.</p>
<p>At the thought of Jonny, a shudder runs through Patrick and he slows to a standstill. Every image of him and Nicki in the hotel room fades away, revealing the memory of Jonny turned toward the wall, his arm moving, his back muscles bunching as he got himself off.</p>
<p>Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, trying to dispel the picture seared into his brain, but it doesn’t work. He opens his eyes and looks around the crowd, the table where the team is sitting, the bar. Jonny’s sitting on one of the stools and talking to Unimpressed Owen, the two of them laughing.</p>
<p>
  <i>Seriously.</i>
</p>
<p>Do they know each other? They have to be friends for Jonny to be over there yucking it up with some random instead of hanging out with the rest of the team. Who blows off their teammates like that? Especially when they all got together for a special occasion.</p>
<p>Unbelievable. The audacity.</p>
<p>Patrick narrows his eyes, watching Owen lean on the top of the bar and into Jonny’s space like he’s...like he...</p>
<p>“ARE YOU GONNA DANCE?” Nicki asks. She shouts it into his ear so loud he winces and pulls away, realizing it’s the most movement he’s made in the last handful of minutes.</p>
<p>Now would be the time to tug her back in and continue. Just forget everything else and press himself against the very hot and very willing woman in front of him.</p>
<p>“Um,” he murmurs, frozen.</p>
<p>“WHAT?” Nicki yells.</p>
<p>Fuck, fuck, <i>fuck</i>. He takes a step back and away, disengaging entirely. He’s such a complete and total dumbass.</p>
<p>“I have to go,” he tells her.</p>
<p>“WHAT?” she yells again, confused and on the edge of irritated.</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t have the energy or time to explain.</p>
<p>“SEE YA.” He waves and leaves the dance floor.</p>
<p>It’d be smart to go to the table with the guys. He could get another couple of free drinks, maybe see if Lelani is free after her shift. He could get wasted and make Buff carry him back to the hotel.</p>
<p>He’s not going to do any of that.</p>
<p>Walking up to the bar, he squeezes in beside where Jonny’s sitting and plops his forearms on the bar, interrupting whatever conversation Jonny was having with Owen. It sounded as if it had something to do with ice fishing.</p>
<p>Patrick pastes on a broad smile, says, not at all accusatory, “What are you doing?” </p>
<p>Jonny pauses. “Hanging out?”</p>
<p>He looks so entirely unbothered it makes Patrick’s blood boil. He has to clench his teeth together to spit out the first insult that drops into his head. </p>
<p>“You’ve been over here all night. Still waiting on your drinks?”</p>
<p>“No,” Jonny says, taking a swig of his fancy ass beer. “Owen’s got me covered. We were talking; turns out his cousin plays for the Sabres, right?”</p>
<p>“Tyler Ennis,” Owen says to Patrick. How it’s possible for a dude to go from interested to uninterested in two seconds flat by simply looking in Patrick’s direction is kind of amazing.</p>
<p>Patrick grants him the same courtesy. “Neat,” he says flatly, and glances back at Jonny. “Are you coming back over to the table?”</p>
<p>Jonny shrugs. “Not yet. In a little bit. Having fun dancing?”</p>
<p>Fine. FINE. Jonny can stay here all night and chill with the <i>amazing</i> Owen. Patrick doesn’t care even a little bit. “Sure,” he says, casually. “Having fun sitting at the bar by yourself?”</p>
<p>Jonny’s jaw twitches. “Yeah.”</p>
<p>Owen smiles.</p>
<p>There’s heat crawling up Patrick’s neck, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. All of a sudden, he doesn’t know why he’s here. He certainly isn’t going to stand around and beg. </p>
<p>“Okay. <i>Great</i>.” He smiles again, showing all of his teeth. “I think I’m going to head out. Bye.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t wait for Jonny to respond or even react, simply takes a step back, spins on the heel of one foot and walks out of the club. </p>
<p>Outside, the air is chilly and sharp, biting against Patrick’s heated skin. He takes a deep breath and blows it out, a cloud materializing and dissolving in the span of a second. He breathes in a few more times and doesn’t quite get to pulling his phone from his pocket before Jonny’s rushing up next to him, eyes intense and expression bewildered.</p>
<p>“Kaner! What the hell?” </p>
<p>Patrick can’t look at him. He can’t even think around the swirling, disorienting anger. He tries to breathe. “What?”</p>
<p>“Are you really leaving?” Jonny asks, concerned.</p>
<p>“Yep. I’m tired,” Patrick says. He crosses his arms over his chest, the cold beginning to set in. He should’ve brought his jacket.</p>
<p>Jonny watches him for a long minute, the sounds of the club music and other people talking filling up the silence. Eventually, he sighs and pulls out his phone. “Alright. I’ll call a cab.”</p>
<p>It’s on the tip of his tongue to tell Jonny he doesn’t have to come with, Patrick certainly didn’t ask him to, but he doesn’t. The thought of Jonny walking back into the bar and hanging out with <i>fuckwad</i> Owen again while Patrick’s alone in their hotel room makes him want to claw his face off.</p>
<p>They don’t talk on the ride back to the hotel, but Patrick isn’t exactly quiet either. He taps his foot on the floor mat of the taxi, shifts around in his seat every thirty seconds letting out deep, put-upon sighs until finally they roll up in front of the door. The second the car stops, he’s out and walking inside, leaving Jonny behind to pay the driver, and not looking back.</p>
<p>Jonny has to jog to catch up to him in the hallway and it fills Patrick with a satisfaction he doesn’t let show on his face.</p>
<p>“Why are you pissed off?” Jonny asks, barely out of breath, the perfect fucker.</p>
<p>The answer to that is obvious.</p>
<p>“It’s my birthday,” Patrick explains curtly.</p>
<p>Jonny’s right eyebrow arches. “You’re pissed off because it’s your birthday.”</p>
<p>Well, it <i>should</i> be obvious. God.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Then…?” Jonny asks.</p>
<p>They reach the door to their room and Patrick spends a drawn out minute looking for his keycard, sliding it in the lock, getting it open and taking his sweet time walking inside, all while Jonny waits impatiently behind him for an answer. Every second Patrick takes not responding is a second he knows is driving Jonny up the wall, through the roof, and over the ledge. It’s worth it for the way his cheeks flush and go blotchy, his eyes so zeroed in that Patrick’s surprised they don’t cross.</p>
<p>It’s almost two in the morning, too late to go through the whole rigmarole of his nightly routine. He does it anyway, just to have something to do, not wanting to sit still. Jonny takes a seat on his own bed closest to the window, legs facing Patrick’s bed, as he watches Patrick move around the room. </p>
<p>The buzz from the alcohol is still flowing through his system, making Patrick feel light and loose lipped. </p>
<p>“You lied,” he says finally, without thinking about it.</p>
<p>Jonny’s face contorts around all of the thoughts he has before it goes flat and he says, “What?”</p>
<p>Patrick’s digging through his bag, looking for his sleep pants and T-shirt, his back to Jonny. He pulls the clothes out and throws them on the bed, then goes back for a clean pair of socks.</p>
<p>He should shut up. He should.</p>
<p>“You lied about Robbie,” he says, instead.</p>
<p>He wants to look at Jonny’s face, but he won’t let himself. His hands are shuffling clothes around in his bag, but he doesn’t need anything.</p>
<p>“What’d I lie about?” Jonny asks, voice sounding composed, almost indifferent.</p>
<p>How the hell he can rage out when Sharpy or Bur tease him even the slightest amount, but with Patrick he comes off so absolutely blasé about everything makes Patrick want to scream.  </p>
<p>He turns around and pins Jonny with an accusing glare. “You said Robbie was a-a girl. A woman.”</p>
<p>“No, I didn’t. You just assumed.”</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you tell me?”</p>
<p>“Tell you what?” Jonny says.</p>
<p>Patrick stands, waves his arms around as he tries to get his point across without words. Words are hard, and this isn’t fucking rocket science. “You know?”</p>
<p>“Know what?”</p>
<p>“Stop answering my questions with questions!” Patrick shouts and flops face first onto his bed, groaning into the mattress until the desire to shake the shit out of Jonny temporarily subsides.</p>
<p>Several minutes pass in silence with Patrick’s face still planted in bedding, attempting to breathe with cotton covering his mouth, and Jonny presumably sitting peacefully and sweetly unbothered three feet away - maybe thinking about Summer Robbie or Awesome Owen. About how he’d much rather be with them than in this room with Patrick, on his <i>birthday</i>.</p>
<p>The fight slowly seeps out of him the longer he lies prone on his bed, his body warm and tingling. Thinking takes just as much work as words and Patrick’s through with both of them. He wants to forget and he wants to sleep.</p>
<p>“Kaner,” Jonny says, low, soft. “If you wanna ask me something, I’m right here. Ask it.”</p>
<p>Patrick decides against letting himself think; he just lifts his head up, his eyes still closed and says, “Cabbie said you had a big dick.”</p>
<p>More silence.</p>
<p>Deathly, evil silence.</p>
<p>Then, “That’s not a question.”</p>
<p>“I meant that um. That you. That Cabbie said <i>you said</i> that you have a big dick.”</p>
<p>Patrick squeezes his eyes shut tighter, presses his forehead to the comforter.</p>
<p>“Still not a question,” Jonny answers. He doesn’t seem surprised, or taken off guard, or even amused. He sounds...measured.</p>
<p>“Do you?” </p>
<p>“Do I what?”</p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Patrick wails. “Why are you making this so fucking difficult?”</p>
<p>The mattress under Jonny creaks and Patrick can’t stop himself from blinking his eyes open to look at him. Jonny’s got his forearms resting on his thighs, his hands threaded together as he holds Patrick with his piercing gaze.</p>
<p>Patrick’s mouth feels so dry his throat clicks when he tries to swallow.</p>
<p>“I just want to be clear on what we’re talking about here,” Jonny says. “You’re asking me about my dick size?”</p>
<p>He can’t deny it, but he can’t - he can’t admit it either.</p>
<p>“Never mind. This is...I don’t know. Just forget it.”</p>
<p>Jonny’s staring at him and nothing else. He’s staring so intently he’s not moving. Patrick almost can’t tell if he’s breathing. Did someone suck all of the air out of the room?</p>
<p>Patrick’s chest feels tight.</p>
<p>“I know you’ve been looking,” Jonny says, and every stern piece of advice that was shared with Patrick while growing up from teammates and friends, to the whispered orders he was given by parents, then coaches, comes hurtling back into his brain.</p>
<p>He broke the golden rule.</p>
<p>He’s wrong. He’s bad. He might be going to jail.</p>
<p>Is hockey jail in Toronto? Will he have to play for the Leafs now? Jesus, help him. </p>
<p>An escape route is already forming; it’s rough, but it consists of faking a heart attack and playing dead until the paramedics come to check on him. During all of the hub-bub, Patrick will slip out and run away to - well - he’s already in Canada. He’ll have to go to America, but further west. He’ll start over in California as a surf instructor. He doesn’t know anything about surfing, but he’s a fast learner and no one out there has heard of him anyway.</p>
<p>He’s ready to roll off the bed and sink into the floor when Jonny blows his world wide open and says, “I wanted you to look.”</p>
<p>Patrick’s entire brain, all of his busy, chaotic thoughts, immediately narrows down to that one sentence, to those five words.</p>
<p>
  <i>I wanted you to look.</i>
</p>
<p>There’s a rushing in his ears as Patrick feels everything tilt and realign with this new information. It’s almost too much to take in, too much to comprehend. </p>
<p>Jonny wanted.</p>
<p>He wanted.</p>
<p>But.</p>
<p>But Robbie. But Owen. This can’t be real. </p>
<p>Patrick sits up and forces himself to meet Jonny’s eyes, and it’s excruciating, to see him and be seen with this new truth hanging between them. If he jumped up and ran out of the room, not a single soul would blame him except Jonny. Jonny, who’s not moved one centimeter in the last five minutes, who’s watching Patrick so carefully that Patrick wonders, for a brief, hysterical instant, if Jonny’s also imagining Patrick bolting for the door.</p>
<p>He surprises them both when he says, “Can I see?”</p>
<p>Jonny’s face flashes a flurry of emotions: shock, incredulity, acceptance, delight. He lands and settles on smug, his mouth curving into a smirk as he sits upright.</p>
<p>“Ask nicely.”</p>
<p>Patrick splutters, “Fuck off,” and then, because he can’t help himself, eyes already trailing down from Jonny’s chest, to his stomach, fixing on his crotch, he murmurs a soft, almost imperceptible, “Please.”</p>
<p>Without giving his body permission, he’s inching forward, over his bed, until his feet are planted on the floor and he’s sitting directly across from Jonny, only two, maybe three feet separating them, this small space between their beds. It feels too far, too close, and not close enough. He doesn’t know what to do with his arms as he watches Jonny pull off his shirt and unbutton his jeans. His palms are sweating, and he wipes them over his thighs, fingers splaying, fingertips digging into muscle as Jonny stands to slip his pants all the way off.</p>
<p>He sits down again, all of his tan, golden skin on display, and Patrick takes it in. He glances from Jonny’s capped shoulders to his stupid abs to the defined veins in his forearms, and the way Jonny’s hand is slowly sliding beneath the elastic band of his boxer briefs.</p>
<p>It’s happening.</p>
<p>The Dick is happening. Right now.</p>
<p>Patrick holds his breath as Jonny peels down his briefs too, revealing the pale, soft, flaccid line of his cock.</p>
<p>He’s not - he’s - Patrick pauses, blinking, once, twice, and blinks again. </p>
<p>“You’re not…” Patrick says, unable to finish the thought. Jonny’s average, probably even above average, but certainly not the biggest in the locker room.</p>
<p>If Patrick had to guess.</p>
<p>Jonny’s smirk doesn’t fade as his big hand wraps around the length of his dick and begins to tug.</p>
<p>“I’m more of a grower,” he states, confident.</p>
<p>Patrick can feel his own cock twitch inside his pants, a fizzle of bubbles low in his belly. He’s barely breathing, his lungs are beginning to burn, his entire neck is so hot that he can feel sweat collecting at his nape. Twenty minutes ago, he was in a club, casually dancing with a pretty girl, and now he’s in this room with Jonny, alone, actively watching him jerk off, and Patrick - he’s fucking riveted.</p>
<p>Jonny’s fist is loose and languid around his dick, sliding up and down, unhurried, unbothered. The tip leaks a drop of precome and Jonny swipes over his slit with his thumb, drags it down, down from the head to the base and it takes Patrick a moment to realize he’s twice the size he was, and the longer he watches, the bigger Jonny gets, until he’s three times the size, until he’s so thick that his fist can’t close all the way around.</p>
<p>And the length of him...</p>
<p>“Holy shit,” Patrick exhales, gasping. “Oh my fuck. It’s. Jonny, it’s <i>huge</i>.”</p>
<p>Jonathan Toews is packing the Stanley Cup of dicks and Patrick had no idea.</p>
<p>He feels lightheaded.</p>
<p>“Show me yours,” Jonny says, his voice an octave lower, husky. It almost doesn’t even sound like Jonny, not the Jonny he’s used to anyway. But this isn’t the Jonny he’s spent the last year and half beside, the one he played against in international tournaments and with during Junior Flyers bantam hockey games.</p>
<p>This Jonny is new. His eyes go heavy-lidded and black as he touches himself, his hips fucking up into his fist causing his abs to bunch and his bicep to flex, and when he moans, he tilts his head back, just a fraction, and Patrick can see the wet hollow of his throat, the rosy, slick skin of his neck. </p>
<p>Patrick almost swallows his tongue. “Why? Mine...it doesn’t do - that. I can promise you.”</p>
<p>“Recip-fuck,” Jonny breathes. “Reciprocity.”</p>
<p>“You’re fucking ridiculous. Spitting five dollar words with a monster dick in your hand.” </p>
<p>“Let me see you,” Jonny growls and it’s not quite an order, but it feels like one, like Jonny reached right into the core of Patrick and twisted up his insides.</p>
<p>“Okay,” he whispers.</p>
<p>What is he doing? What the fuck are they doing?</p>
<p>Patrick reaches for the buttons on his shirt, undoing them so quickly that his hands fumble. He yanks it off but leaves his white undershirt on, moving to kick off his shoes and then push down his pants. He winces at the sight of his own SpongeBob Squarepants boxer shorts, the many tiny Patrick Stars staring up at him with dopey smiles.</p>
<p>Not his finest fashion choice.</p>
<p>Jonny’s amusement falls from his face when Patrick pulls himself out, achingly hard and dark pink at the tip. He’s already wet all over, wet enough that there’s a damp patch at the front of one cartoon starfish.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” Jonny says, his fist gliding down to the base and squeezing, almost like he’s about to lose it. “You gonna touch yourself?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Patrick nods, gaze glued to Jonny’s angled cock, the way it spans his abs and juts up toward his chest. He’s so goddamn long it doesn’t seem real. If Patrick hadn’t seen it grow this big with his own two eyes, he might think he was watching a CGI dick. Monsters, Inc., but not the Pixar version.</p>
<p>He reaches for himself thoughtlessly and hisses the second his fingers make contact. “Yes. Shit,” he says, so sensitive already, his balls tighten as he thumbs at his crown.</p>
<p>Jonny hums, matching his strokes and watching Patrick with an intensity that makes him shiver. “That’s good.”</p>
<p>It is good. It shouldn't be this good.</p>
<p>Jonny shouldn’t be real, and yet here he is, so big, so thick, a blush red and beautifully shaped.</p>
<p>“<i>Jonny</i>,” he whimpers and scoots forward on the bed until he’s at the edge of it.</p>
<p>He slips to his knees, right there, in front of Jonny, so close he could reach out - he could lean forward and - and god.</p>
<p>His breaths sound so loud, the carpet gritty against his skin, everything feels amplified.</p>
<p>“What do you want, Peeks?” Jonny asks, soft. He’s stopped moving his hand. He doesn’t reach out, but he does take his hand, the one currently not on his cock and places it on his knee, palm up, like an invitation. </p>
<p>“You wanna touch me?”</p>
<p>Patrick nods. He can’t speak.</p>
<p>“C’mere,” Jonny says, gentle, and Patrick goes, shuffling forward until the last remaining distance between them is gone. He places his left hand on Jonny’s bare thigh, fingers brushing with Jonny’s fingers as he takes all of Jonny in.</p>
<p>He’s so big that it’s overwhelming. But honestly, fuck it; if Patrick’s already going to dick jail, he might as well go for more than just looking.</p>
<p>He wraps his hand around the base of Jonny’s cock, below Jonny’s own hand, and feels the heat of him, watches the way Jonny grunts, jerking within the circle of his grasp. The reaction makes him bold so he slides his hand up Jonny’s entire length, up and over the wet head, and watches Jonny’s eyes flutter shut as he shudders and comes and comes.</p>
<p>It’s a lot, more than Patrick was expecting, a translucent white like his own and all over his hand and Jonny’s belly. </p>
<p>Slowing the pumping up and down on Jonny’s dick, Patrick gets caught on the way his fingers pull over Jonny’s slit, a fat string of come clinging to his fingertips. Patrick licks his lips. His heart is beating so fast he thinks he might pass out soon, but he wants. Just this once. If it’s only this once, it’s not a thing; it didn’t happen. </p>
<p>He leans in and dips his head forward, lapping at the slick head of Jonny’s dick, tasting him on his tongue. It’s not enough. He wraps his entire mouth around the crown and sucks, drawing up the mess inside his mouth until all that’s left is the flavor of Jonny’s skin. Jonny keens, and grips the back of Patrick’s neck. He doesn’t push, he doesn’t pull, just cups his hand there and holds Patrick, palm pulsing with every swipe of Patrick’s tongue over the sensitive ridge.</p>
<p>Time dissolves as Patrick licks around the width of him, tries to take him farther into his mouth, lips stretched wide. Eventually he remembers he’s still hard, throbbing, dick bobbing between his legs.</p>
<p>He barely has to brush the side of his own dick with his pinky finger and he loses it, spurting over the carpet and moaning with a mouth full of Jonny. He comes so hard all he can do when he’s done is slump against Jonny’s thigh and pant.</p>
<p>Sleep sounds really good right about now. Patrick doesn’t even need to move; he can just stay right here on Jonny’s tree trunk thigh and doze off while Jonny combs over his hair.</p>
<p>“<i>Peeksy</i>,” Jonny says, sweetly. “C’mon, let’s get you up.” He fixes his forearms under Patrick’s armpits and pulls him up until he’s half-standing, half-leaning on Jonny. Then he pulls the covers back on Patrick’s bed and helps him until he’s lying down. “There you go.”</p>
<p>He disappears for a minute, and Patrick wonders absently where he went, if he’s gone back to his own bed, and then he feels a wet wash cloth wiping over his skin. </p>
<p>“Happy birthday to me,” Patrick mutters into his pillow right before he passes out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2009</b>
</p>
<p>They don’t talk about it over the next few days. There’s practice and travel, a game in San Jose, then a back-to-back against Anaheim and L.A. where they rack up one win and two losses. Nine points out of twelve is good enough for the whole trip, but Patrick can’t help but be irritated with himself, and envious Jonny made the sole goal happen to bring the game into OT - even if he did end up missing his shot in the shootout.</p>
<p>Returning to Chicago is a nice reprieve after two weeks on the road and Patrick’s happy to sleep in his own bed, in his own room, alone.</p>
<p>He doesn’t jack off in the shower thinking about Jonny’s naked body, or his thick thighs framing his incredibly thick dick. He doesn’t fuck his fist on the couch daydreaming about sliding to his knees in front of Jonny and watching the way Jonny’s mouth fell open, how his dick leaked a copius stream the closer Patrick got. He definitely doesn’t hump his mattress in the middle of the night replaying the way Jonny felt inside his mouth, how his strong fingers carded gently through Patrick’s hair after Patrick had come.</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t think about it at all, because it’s not a thing. It was a one-off. If it wasn’t, Jonny would’ve said something by now, a whole ass week later as they’re about to head back out to Pittsburgh. He certainly wouldn’t have waited until they’ve arrived at the hotel after morning practice and are preparing for their afternoon nap.</p>
<p>That’d be horrible timing.</p>
<p>Just the absolute worst.</p>
<p>“Are you asleep?” Jonny asks at full volume. </p>
<p>Patrick’s been in bed, curled around his pillow, for all of about three minutes. “No. Are you?”</p>
<p>“Obviously not,” Jonny says, clipped.</p>
<p>“<i>Okay</i>.” No reason for him to be getting snippy with Patrick, when he’s the one who started the conversation. Patrick closes his eyes and lets his thoughts wander, trying to stay away from any topics or subjects that might stir certain desires.</p>
<p>From the other bed he hears the ruffling of sheets and a long sigh.</p>
<p>Quiet.</p>
<p>Another sigh.</p>
<p>More sheets ruffling.</p>
<p>“Kaner?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“I’m coming over there, okay?”</p>
<p>Over where? Over here? To Patrick - to Patrick’s bed? He wants to ask even if it seems pretty clear. “Okay,” he says again and stays very still, even as he feels his bed dip and his covers lift as Jonny gets in beside him and presses his chest along Patrick's back.</p>
<p>It’s weird being spooned by a man. It’s weird being spooned at all. Patrick can’t remember the last time he felt this; maybe when he was a kid and sleeping in his parents’ bed after a nightmare. And wow, he does not want to be thinking about his mom and dad right now. Gross.</p>
<p>Jonny’s hand touches his hip, two of his fingers slipping underneath Patrick’s T-shirt and touching the bare skin there, brushing so softly it tickles, and Patrick shifts away. Less because it feels bad - it doesn’t - and more just to calm his now-racing heart. He moves to his back, his side still mostly touching Jonny, as he stares up at the ceiling and not at Jonny, who’s looking directly at him.</p>
<p>“Don’t freak out,” Jonny says slowly, like he’s talking to a frightened colt. His hand returns, moving beneath Patrick’s shirt again to splay out over his belly. For one wild second, Patrick thinks he’s going to slip it into Patrick’s underwear, but he doesn’t, just rubs soothing circles over Patrick’s abs.</p>
<p>Patrick can’t stop the laugh that escapes, soft giggles at first as it builds until he’s cracking up, head thrown back into his pillow, eyes watering as he cackles, until he’s shaking and silent.</p>
<p>“Patrick?” Jonny asks, concerned.</p>
<p>“I’m not freaking out,” Patrick pants, wiping the wetness from his face. It’s hard to breathe, his chest full of what feels like hiccups. He’s fine. He’s good.</p>
<p>Jonny thumbs away a tear that’s trickled down Patrick’s temple. “Kinda looks like it.”</p>
<p>He sounds so calm and collected that it’s kind of annoying.</p>
<p>Patrick turns to him, pushing Jonny’s hand out from under his shirt. “Well, I’m not. I’m <i>fine</i>.”</p>
<p>When someone on the team is struggling on the ice, or having a bad few days, Jonny will get this look; Patrick secretly calls it his Caring Canadian Captain’s Face, and he hates when Jonny uses it on him. He’s not a rookie, he’s not injured, or about to be healthy-scratched, or even Sharpy in a bad mood. He doesn’t need to be fucking coddled.</p>
<p>“Kaner,” Jonny says in <i>that</i> tone, with <i>that</i> face.</p>
<p>“<i>What?</i>” Patrick bites out. His skin feels hot and itchy. He squeezes the fingers of his left hand together, pulling at the knuckles, needing to do something.</p>
<p>Jonny scoots closer, until he’s plastered along Patrick’s side, still trying to spoon him. He fits his fingers around one of Patrick’s wrists and holds on, loose, thumb brushing over his pulse point. So soft that this, too, tickles.</p>
<p>“It’s okay,” he says, equally soft. “We didn’t do anything wrong.”</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t say anything for the longest time and neither does Jonny. They lie beside each other and breathe, and after a while Patrick’s body relaxes fully, sinking into the mattress, his eyelids heavy.</p>
<p>“You’re such a lamer.” He pulls Jonny’s hand, the one around his wrist, fits it back under his shirt, exactly where it was, keeping it there. “Do you want to...you know?”</p>
<p>Jonny’s eyes widen slightly as a smile spreads over his mouth. “No?” he says, curious. “What?”</p>
<p>Patrick bites at his bottom lip. “Do you want to maybe do it again?”</p>
<p>“Do what?”</p>
<p>He cocks his head to the side. “Are you serious?”</p>
<p>Jonny’s fingertips tease the band of his boxer briefs, not quite slipping inside, but close, caressing. “I mean, if you want to suck my dick again, I’m going to need you to ask with real words.”</p>
<p>It’s embarrassing that Patrick’s already hard. </p>
<p>Jonny’s hard too, his cock nudged up against Patrick’s hip, even while he acts like a smug, unaffected smartass.</p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Patrick says. “Why are you like this?”</p>
<p>Jonny chuckles, grinds his dick over Patrick’s thigh and up in tiny, smooth increments. “Is that really what you want to ask me right now?”</p>
<p>He’s so sure he’s going to get what he wants; Patrick imagines jumping on top of him and wrestling him to the floor, dragging Jonny down until he wipes that arrogant smile from his face. Patrick can’t let this stand.</p>
<p>He cannot be the only one here freefalling.</p>
<p>“You know what?” he says, sitting up and moving as if he’s going to get off the bed. “Never mind.” </p>
<p>Out from under the covers and shuffling over the bedding is as far as he gets before two strong arms are wrapping around his chest and yanking him back, Jonny’s lips by Patrick’s ear, his voice hot over Patrick’s neck. “Kaner! Hey, hey, hey. I’m sorry,” he says, low, causing Patrick to shiver. He doesn’t sound teasing now, or even playful, only worried. “I was just kidding. I’ll stop. Stay, please?”</p>
<p>Patrick waits for a minute to pass, then two, just to make Jonny squirm, finally sighing dramatically as he nods. As soon as Jonny has confirmation, he flips them until Patrick’s on his back on the bed again, Jonny hovering over him, holding himself up over Patrick’s body on his bent arms. He knocks his knee into Patrick’s, asking for permission, and looks so fucking proud when Patrick spreads his legs, letting Jonny settle in between them.</p>
<p>“I hate you,” Patrick grumbles.</p>
<p>He doesn’t.</p>
<p>“No, you don’t,” Jonny says; he’s lost the smirk. </p>
<p>His body is so warm and heavy on top of Patrick’s, like he’s being held down by a human security blanket. It’s different from having a 110-pound girl over him, someone he could easily move if he wanted. Jonny’s so big, unfairly tall, with at least thirty pounds on Patrick, immovable in innumerable ways. He’d get up if Patrick asked, but Patrick couldn’t make him, not if Jonny didn’t want to leave. It trips a wire in Patrick's brain, and he melts, limbs turning into jelly.</p>
<p>His body is a stupid motherfucker.</p>
<p>Patrick would like that noted.</p>
<p>“How can you be so sure?” he asks, closing his eyes after Jonny stares at him for too long to be comfortable.</p>
<p>He’s such a weirdo about the staring. Especially when his face is a solemn mask, searching. What’s he trying to find? An answer? A zit? Is he trying to read Patrick’s mind? Patrick will gladly tell him that in his brain is a mix of hockey stats, hockey highlights, hockey, some more hockey, a voice usually urging him to break his diet plan, and a hamster running on a wheel, not knowing what the hell is going on, ever.</p>
<p>Jonny slides up until their dicks brush together and Patrick can’t swallow down the breathy gasp that bubbles up from his throat. Only two thin layers of underwear separate them. It’s not enough to hide how big Jonny’s cock feels against his own, rubbing along the length of his dick and over his balls, up to his belly.</p>
<p>Patrick hates the way he opens his legs even further, trying to chase it.</p>
<p>“Because you stayed,” Jonny murmurs, lips touching the edge of Patrick’s jaw. “And because in about one minute you’re going to be moaning my name.”</p>
<p>Patrick’s eyes fly open. He almost laughs, he's so shocked, but he sees Jonny’s still serious.</p>
<p>“Yeah right,” he huffs, like it’s a joke. “Someone needs an ego check.”</p>
<p>Jonny stares at him for another beat, so intense Patrick’s about to look away, maybe turn over, and then Jonny sticks his tongue out, crosses his eyes, and licks a wet stripe over Patrick’s cheek.</p>
<p>“Jesus, Tazer,” Patrick giggles, squirming around as he tries to wipe the spit from his face.</p>
<p>Jonny’s expression fades into something pleased and easy as he lifts up, sitting on his legs as he rolls Patrick’s boxers down his thighs and off. Patrick’s still smiling, expecting Jonny to take off his own underwear and press their bodies together, but he doesn’t. He scoots down the bed, fitting his shoulders between Patrick’s legs, leans in and, without preamble, sucks Patrick’s dick into his mouth.</p>
<p>“Fuck!” Patrick shouts, arching up.</p>
<p>Jonny’s mouth is a goddamn revelation, hot and slick, and he takes Patrick deep, the head of Patrick’s cock hitting his throat almost immediately. He hums as he begins to move back and forth, creating a vibration around his suction that has Patrick’s balls tightening too quickly.</p>
<p>“<i>Jonny</i>,” he says, shoving a hand in Jonny’s hair and letting another grasp at the sheets. “Oh god.”</p>
<p>“Like that?” Jonny asks, lips wet and face beginning to flush.</p>
<p>Patrick nods instead of speaking and tries to tug Jonny back down to where he wants him, where he desperately needs him. Jonny kisses the inside of his right thigh and lifts it over his shoulder, repeats the process on the left, leaving Patrick’s hips tilted up and Jonny’s face painfully close to Patrick’s exposed ass.</p>
<p>“You taste good, Peeks,” Jonny says, tongue gliding over the seam of Patrick’s balls and up, up, up, all the way to the crown of his leaking cock. He licks off the precome and takes Patrick into his mouth again as one of his big hands squeezes at Patrick’s thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise.</p>
<p>It shouldn’t tug at Patrick’s insides, shoving him closer to orgasm so soon. He’s not a virgin, okay. He’s gotten his dick sucked before. Just not - never like this.</p>
<p>He tries to keep his eyes open so he can watch Jonny take his dick, groaning every time he sucks Patrick until Patrick keens and arches up again, but it’s difficult. It feels so fucking good; he wants to sink into it. Let go. He rakes his fingers through Jonny’s soft hair and blinks them open after they’ve shut for the twentieth time and sees Jonny fucking his hips down against the mattress, grinding in and in.</p>
<p>He shudders and moans Jonny’s name. He can’t stop it.</p>
<p>Of course Jonny was right; he’s right about everything.</p>
<p>“You’re so pretty like this,” Jonny says as he comes up for air.</p>
<p>Patrick throws an arm over his face, unable to look at Jonny and hear him speak.</p>
<p>“No,” he mumbles.</p>
<p>No, he’s not. Jonny’s not right about this one thing.</p>
<p>“You are,” Jonny tells him, hushed, as he presses his lips to the crease where Patrick’s thigh meets his groin.</p>
<p>Patrick moans, thrusting up, needing more friction on his dick and for Jonny to shut the hell up and just finish him off.</p>
<p>He shakes his head and tries to take himself in a firm grip, but Jonny eases his hand away gently. “Let me, yeah?”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Patrick breathes, quivering.</p>
<p>Jonny sets back to work, sucking Patrick down as he releases Patrick’s thigh and moves lower. Patrick isn’t sure what he’s doing, and he forgets to care for a while, until he feels a finger - no, a thumb - rubbing over his perineum, massaging so sweetly that Patrick’s entire body lights up.</p>
<p>“Please,” he cries. “Jonny.”</p>
<p>The humming starts up again, his cock sliding down Jonny’s throat at the same time the pad of Jonny's thumb moves down, pressing at his hole. It’s too much; Patrick can't hold it together anymore. He sobs and comes, trembling all over.</p>
<p>Jonny doesn’t move away, not at first; he’s swallowing and licking Patrick clean, Patrick’s sensitive nerve endings protesting, making his body jerk and shift. Then he’s lifting himself up and slipping off his own boxers, his giant cock bobbing as he knee-walks up the bed, easing down on top of Patrick again.</p>
<p>“Put your legs around me,” he orders and Patrick does, without thinking, too blissed out and gone to care.</p>
<p>Rocking back and forth over Patrick’s body in that same slow grind Patrick saw him display earlier, Jonny’s cock rides over Patrick's abs, his spent dick, then his balls. Patrick locks his ankles together behind Jonny’s back and undulates underneath him, gives Jonny friction to fuck against until Jonny whimpers, shoves his face into Patrick’s neck, and spurts between them.</p>
<p>After they calm down enough to break apart, Jonny rolls to his back beside Patrick and Patrick listens to his breathing slowly even out.</p>
<p>“It’s unfair everything about you is big,” Patrick says when the silence goes on too long. “Like you could share a little, you know?”</p>
<p>Jonny laughs, smacking Patrick lightly on the thigh. “You wouldn’t call what we just did sharing? I would. But I could share more.”</p>
<p>He thinks he’s so funny.</p>
<p>Patrick’s the funny one here, that's very clear.</p>
<p>“You’re dumb,” he says, elbowing Jonny in the ribs.</p>
<p>Jonny shrugs, like, <i>hey, maybe</i>, and sighs. “Our nap is fucked.”</p>
<p>The clock by his bed reads almost two. “We still have an hour and a half left.”</p>
<p>Jonny checks the clock himself, because he’s a controlling nutcase like that, and nods, wiggling back into his pillow. It’s Patrick’s pillow. Well, it’s actually the hotel’s pillow, but it’s the one Patrick claimed as the best out of all the pillows piled on his chosen bed so of course Jonny takes it.</p>
<p>On the other hand, Patrick can’t stay still, or maybe his head feels too full. Jonny’s the one who won’t shut up in most situations. Patrick’s waiting for him to say something now, anything. He stays annoyingly quiet.</p>
<p>“So,” Patrick says, and hopes Jonny will pick up the thread, start discussing his newest workout technique, a documentary he just watched, whatever drops first into his mind. He doesn’t, and Patrick can’t keep himself from blurting out the foremost thought swirling in his head. “You’ve done that before?”</p>
<p>“Given a blow job? Yeah,” Jonny says simply.</p>
<p>Yeah.</p>
<p>
  <i>Yeah?</i>
</p>
<p>In favor of asking Jonny to explain, Patrick bites at the inside of his cheek and says, “It was alright.”</p>
<p>Jonny smiles then frowns, like his face doesn’t know how to react. “You’re so full of shit. You liked it. Admit it.”</p>
<p>Patrick shrugs. “I’ve had better.”</p>
<p>The crease in Jonny’s brow deepens; he leans up on one bent arm. “Who?”</p>
<p>“Becky. Eleventh grade.”</p>
<p>“Oh, <i>okay</i>,” Jonny laughs, dry. “Well, in that case I guess you don’t need my help taking care of that then, eh?” He bumps the knuckle of his middle finger against Patrick’s dick, which is, unsurprisingly, hard again.</p>
<p>Patrick sucks in a sharp breath. Stupid dick. </p>
<p>He’s becoming dick dumb.</p>
<p>“I didn’t say that,” Patrick argues. “Hey, where are you going?”</p>
<p>Jonny kicks at the comforter wrapped around one of his feet, like it’s trying to stop him from leaving, and spins, dropping his legs to the floor. “To my own bed.”</p>
<p>Patrick’s mouth falls open, gawking. “And leaving me in the wet spot?” </p>
<p>The audacity.</p>
<p>“Yep,” he states, climbing beneath his own sheets and tucking himself in, blasé. “Enjoy it.”</p>
<p>“Oh, hell no,” Patrick says, pushing himself up and jumping into bed beside Jonny. “Move over. Since you like <i>sharing</i> so much.”</p>
<p>Jonny obliges, resituating in the middle and lifting his arm, inviting. Patrick pauses, beginning to wind back up, his muscles tensing, before he decides he’s too tired to fight it and slumps forward, into Jonny’s side. His head is pillowed half on Jonny’s chest and half in his armpit. It smells musky and not nearly as bad as it should, kind of nice. He humps himself a little against Jonny’s thigh, less to get things going again and more to relieve a bit of the ache. His eyelids close like magnets snapping onto a refrigerator door.</p>
<p>Jonny hums. “We should sleep.”</p>
<p>“We should,” Patrick agrees, and then he’s fading, fading, gone.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The week before Christmas the Hawks ask a few of the players to stop by Lurie’s Children’s Hospital to visit with a few of the kids as an early surprise. They bring them gifts and give them a reason to smile during what’s likely a difficult holiday season for them and their families. Patrick enjoys going even if emotionally it’s difficult to do, keeping a smile on his face while seeing these tiny, precious humans suffering. It helps with Jonny, Sharpy, and Seabs being there, able to take turns and play off of each other to keep everything light and fun for the kids.</p>
<p>By the time they wrap it up and head out to the parking lot, Patrick’s too mentally drained to argue much when Sharpy foists the job of driving Patrick home on Jonny.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you just drive yourself?” Jonny asks as they pull out onto the street. </p>
<p>He brought his Prius instead of his Mercedes today, probably because he felt guilty visiting sick kids driving a $75,000 vehicle, but Patrick misses the comfort of the plush leather seats. </p>
<p>“I was tired,” he says through a yawn, mouth dropping open. He also didn’t want to show up in his flashy Hummer, even if he loves the thing despite all the shit he gets for it.</p>
<p>Jonny rolls his eyes. “So was I, but I put on my big boy pants and got myself here.”</p>
<p>“Well, while you were dealing with ‘big boy pants,’ I was napping in the car as I was chauffeured here ‘cause I used my big boy brain.” Patrick points at his temple in demonstration of said big brain.</p>
<p>There’s some lunchtime traffic congestion as they near downtown and Patrick scoots his seat back, popping one of his legs up on the dash just to watch the look of constipation on Jonny’s face deepen.</p>
<p>“You could’ve asked me,” Jonny grumbles. “I’m two minutes away.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, but you’re grouchy in the mornings.”</p>
<p>“No, I’m not.”</p>
<p>Patrick pats at his knee. “Sure, dude.”</p>
<p>He expects Jonny to push him away, but he doesn’t, just purses his lips and mumbles, “I’m not,” under his breath.</p>
<p>Always needing to have the last word, this one.</p>
<p>Ten minutes turns into twenty and they’ve only moved three miles down the road. Patrick begins to get antsy. He can smell food from one of the restaurants nearby and his stomach rumbles.</p>
<p>“I’m hungry.”</p>
<p>“Is that right?” Jonny says, pointing to his glove box where Patrick knows he keeps extra granola bars, the ones that taste like tree bark and practically crack your teeth.</p>
<p>Patrick ignores him. “Yes. Feed me. Jonny, FEED ME,” he pleads. When Jonny doesn’t immediately respond, he leans over and places his chin on Jonny’s shoulder, batting his eyelashes at him.</p>
<p>Jonny laughs. “Fine, but we’re ordering in at my place. I slept like shit last night. I need to stretch out on the couch.”</p>
<p>At the suggestion of Jonny laid out, with just the two of them in his apartment, alone, Patrick’s ears heat and his upper lip begins to sweat.</p>
<p>In the month following the absolute worst blow job of Patrick’s life, there've been twelve other blow jobs, given and received, on top of some naked wrestling, frotting, rubbing, and napping. All of it on the road, and none of it discussed. </p>
<p>They don’t talk about it.</p>
<p>Nothing’s happened yet at one of their apartments. Patrick thinks it’s purposeful, but he isn’t sure, and he won’t ask, because they don’t talk about it. If Jonny’s inviting Patrick over to his place for food and hanging out only, that’s fine. Patrick doesn’t need anything.</p>
<p>He shifts in his seat and adjusts the crotch of his pants. “Can we get pizza?”</p>
<p>“No.” Jonny’s eyes flick to him, down, back to the road.</p>
<p>“Oh c'mon!”</p>
<p>“The last time I had pizza, I was puking before and after the game that night. In the hotel bathroom, if you remember.”</p>
<p>“I remember,” Patrick says. It was a lot of puke. Too much puke. They’d also lost the following game during a back to back. Unpleasant experience all around - would not repeat.</p>
<p>“No pizza.”</p>
<p>Patrick sighs. “What about sushi bowls?”</p>
<p>Jonny thinks on it for one torturous minute. “That works.”</p>
<p>“You’re difficult, Toews. I want you to know that.”</p>
<p>“Be nice or I’ll make you pay for your own dinner.”</p>
<p>“I thought you didn’t make your dates pay because you’re such a gentleman?” Patrick pokes at him, hoping to rile him up, just a little.</p>
<p>“Are you my date, Kaner?” Jonny asks.</p>
<p>That’s not...what he was saying.</p>
<p>Patrick coughs, starts fiddling with the radio, flipping through five different channels before giving up and leaving it on some alternative rock song. “Anyway. Can we watch the Lost finale?”</p>
<p>He meant to watch it last spring, but the playoffs happened and, well, he never got around to it. </p>
<p>Jonny shakes his head, turning onto the block for En Hakkore. “I don’t have it recorded.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, you do. I set it up to record when I saw it was re-airing the last time I was over,” Patrick explains.</p>
<p>Jonny rolls his eyes. “Of course you did.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“Sawyer’s the only one that ever gets anything done around there,” Jonny says after they’ve finished lunch and are well into the episode of Lost.</p>
<p>Patrick splutters, only a little. “Excuse me? <i>Ex-cuse me?</i> These losers would be nowhere without Jack, you better believe that. He’s the only competent leader, no others need apply.”</p>
<p>Across from him, reclined on the couch, Jonny lifts a hand and waves it at the TV. “He’s okay. Kinda self-righteous.”</p>
<p>Patrick's close enough, chilling in the love seat, he could probably hop onto Jonny from here and strangle him. Just a thought. Patrick takes a deep breath. “Maybe, but only because everyone around him is an idiot who doesn’t listen. And no, I will not be considering any other opinions or listening to anymore slander. My dude is a fucking boss. He tries to take care of everyone, he’s the only one who uses logic, he gets shit done.”</p>
<p>Jonny looks amused at Patrick’s impassioned speech. “Like the captain of the island, eh?”</p>
<p>Jack: Tall, dark-haired, intelligent, self-assured, in control, and a take-charge leader. Patrick’s brain glitches at the comparison and he frowns. </p>
<p>“You’re more like Charlie,” he says.</p>
<p>“Which one is he?”</p>
<p>“He died two seasons ago. Of his own stupidity.” Patrick snickers.</p>
<p>Jonny doesn’t laugh. Too bad for him since Patrick’s hilarious.</p>
<p>“This show doesn’t make sense,” he complains.</p>
<p>“You don’t make sense,” Patrick says. It’s childish, but has the added benefit of also being true.</p>
<p>Jonny sits up on the edge of his chair, like he’s about to get up, but doesn’t. On TV, Jack and Sawyer are punching the living shit out of each other. It’s a fight Patrick’s been waiting five seasons to finally see and he can’t stop looking back at Jonny, uncharacteristically fidgeting in his seat.</p>
<p>He reaches up and scratches at the back of his neck. It’s one of his very few tells. Patrick hasn’t quite deciphered what it means yet, but he knows Jonny often only does it when he’s agitated. At himself, at Patrick, at life in general, Patrick has no idea. The point still stands.</p>
<p>“Hmm.” Jonny rubs his hands together, like he’s gearing himself up for something, and then turns to Patrick and asks out of nowhere, “You ever been eaten out before?”</p>
<p>Patrick chokes on the water he was in the middle of swallowing. He bumps his fist to his chest trying to catch his breath, trying to get a handle on the conversation shift, holy shit. “Like - like a tongue?”</p>
<p>Jonny’s cheeks are beginning to flush. “My tongue in your ass, yeah.”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“You want to?”</p>
<p>“Um.” Patrick stands. He picks up his empty bowl, Jonny’s too, the varied dirty utensils and balled up napkins spread over the coffee table, piling them all together in a neat and orderly little mountain in his arms and takes them into the kitchen, throwing them away. Once he’s hidden by the partition that cuts off the dining and living room from the kitchen, he yells back a quick, “Yes.”</p>
<p>From the other side of the wall, he can hear Jonny’s short, unexpected laugh. “Well, come back in here then.” </p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t, not immediately, dawdling in the kitchen. He shoves the dirty dishes in the dishwasher and fills himself a glass of filtered water, gulping it down in one go and trying to ignore the erection pushing uncomfortably against his zipper.</p>
<p>“Actually, let’s go to my room. The bed will be better,” Jonny says when Patrick finally joins him in the living room.</p>
<p>Ushering Patrick into his room Jonny steps up behind him and fits his hands around Patrick’s waist, guiding him there as they two-step down the hallway. It’s not at all practical, but Patrick can feel Jonny’s dick pressing against his ass and it stops the rest of his thoughts, his brain short-circuiting twice in less than ten minutes.</p>
<p>Jonny’s bedroom is nice, as far as bedrooms go. The decoration is minimal and the colors are all earth tones, the furniture a light oak, not flashy like Patrick’s own, but finely made, probably by some hundred-year-old Canadian company. The bed is huge and sits in the middle of the room, with dark green sheets and a cream colored comforter pulled up over the mattress, tucked in at the ends and sides, the pillows perfectly parallel to one another.</p>
<p>“Did you make your bed?” Patrick asks, gawking at how clean the room is compared to the rest of his apartment.</p>
<p>“Maybe. Why?” Jonny asks, scratching at his neck.</p>
<p>“Why me? Why <i>you</i>? Who the fuck regularly makes their bed?”</p>
<p>Jonny’s jaw twitches. “Just take off your clothes.”</p>
<p>He shouldn’t push, but it’s so fun to work Jonny up.</p>
<p>“Is this why you disappeared in here for ten minutes when we first got to your place? Were you making the bed for me, Jon?” Patrick smiles, but he slips out of his shirt and pants easily enough, folding them in a pile with his boxers and setting them gingerly on one of Jonny’s dressers.</p>
<p>“No,” Jonny says, frowning. His eyes track up and down Patrick’s naked body, lingering.</p>
<p>“Oh, I think you were,” he teases.</p>
<p>Jonny’s whole face and neck are bright red. “And I think you should shut up and get naked.”</p>
<p>He rips off his own shirt like someone has a gun pointed at him, forcing him to be here, and Patrick holds back a laugh. For the most part, Patrick’s used to Jonny’s little tantrums, having seen them enough in the wake of one of Sharpy’s pranks. It’s calming Jonny down in the aftermath so he doesn’t spend the next several hours pissed off and pouting that Patrick’s still working on.</p>
<p>If he had to guess, he’d say Jonny isn’t actually mad right now, not really, just embarrassed at being caught out.</p>
<p>Patrick really shouldn’t push.</p>
<p>But.</p>
<p>“God, you’re bossy. Have I told you that before?” he says, as he climbs on Jonny’s bed and begins tugging the comforter and then the sheets down.</p>
<p>“Only every day.”</p>
<p>“Did you clean the sheets too?” Patrick spreads out in the middle, on his back, and shoves his face to one of Jonny’s pillows. “It smells nice in here.”</p>
<p>“Patrick,” he sighs, rubbing at his neck again, clearly flustered. It’s incredible.</p>
<p>“Yeah?” Patrick echoes his tone, and then almost swallows his own tongue at the sight looking back at him. </p>
<p><i>Jonny</i>. Jonny hovering at the end of the bed, completely naked, skin golden in the warm glow of his room, his big cock half-hard and hanging thickly between his legs, shiny red at the tip. All of his muscles tensed and bulging, and his face so serious, so intent that he almost looks mad but for the sweet blush running up his neck and cheeks. His black eyes glassy, heavily lidded.</p>
<p>He licks his lips and Patrick shivers, suddenly feeling too exposed, too open. He starts to pull the sheets up around him and Jonny shakes his head.</p>
<p>“Can you just…” Jonny says, like he’s trying to will Patrick into doing what he wants by just thinking hard enough.</p>
<p>Patrick stills, waiting, watching Jonny move onto the bed too, even while his hands twitch to cover himself up, even as his cock jerks, wanting to be seen.</p>
<p>“I can-,” Patrick begins to say, his smartass comment cut off as Jonny fits his arms around Patrick’s middle and flips him, in one fast swoop, onto his belly.</p>
<p>He sucks in a sharp breath as Jonny immediately settles on top of him, his warm skin sliding over Patrick’s deliciously, his dick rubbing over the crease of Patrick’s ass in a way that’s so unexpectedly good that it’s kind of alarming.</p>
<p>“Shit,” Patrick says, and closes his eyes, willing himself to not spread his legs.</p>
<p>It’s just sex. It’s just buddies getting off because there’s nothing better to do. If you can’t let one of your best friends eat your ass and still go out and win some hockey games, then who can you do it with? <i>Right?</i></p>
<p>A big, warm, callused palm glides down the length of his back, curling around the side of his ribcage. Another travels up his spine, massaging at his shoulder, thumb pressing at the knot he always carries near his neck. When Jonny slides lower, his cock drags over Patrick’s ass, bumping against his balls. </p>
<p>“Gonna let me in?” Jonny asks, moving over Patrick so well, Patrick forgets everything but yes, and good, and please.</p>
<p>Jonny’s fingers fit between his thighs and inch them open, massaging them too, up from the backs of his knees to the bottom swell of his ass cheeks, rubbing and rubbing, turning Patrick boneless, light like a cloud. He thinks he might lift off the bed and float into the fucking sky, he’s so insubstantial. And then Jonny’s fully between his legs, pulling his cheeks apart. And then he’s leaning in and licking one wet stripe from Patrick’s balls to up over his hole. And then Patrick’s grasping at the nearest pillow to wrap his arms around, shove his face into, and cry out.</p>
<p>It’s overwhelming in its newness, just like everything with Jonny has been so far, and Patrick is struck with how much he simultaneously wants to jump away and dive right in.</p>
<p>“Fuck,” Jonny says, like he’s been punched. Patrick can feel his hot breath right there, right over his bare hole, and he shivers. “I knew you’d be so pink here, so soft.”</p>
<p>He flattens his tongue and licks over Patrick’s rim, three, maybe four times. He makes a spear of his tongue and traces around the shape of it. A fingertip joins in, swirling all of the spit Jonny’s gotten him wet with, and he scoops some of it up and tries to feed it into Patrick - into his hole.</p>
<p>“Jonny,” he stutters because it’s the first thing he can think to say.</p>
<p>Jonny kisses at his hole, kisses it tenderly, kisses it filthily. He sucks at it like he’s French kissing it, like he’s fucking making out with it, and all Patrick can do is moan, arch his back, and seek out more, more, more. He humps himself against Jonny’s face in such a shameless grind he knows he’ll be unable to think about this later. Not without wanting to slam his face into a wall.</p>
<p>He needs to get up and walk away before Jonny’s tongue goes any further, before this Crazy Train makes its departure to Insanity Ville.</p>
<p>Just.</p>
<p>Just a little more.</p>
<p>It can’t hurt when they’re this good of friends. Jonny wouldn’t let them ruin it.</p>
<p>Patrick tries to flatten his hips, tries to pull away and Jonny growls, hooking his arm under Patrick’s stomach, yanking him back in place, one hand pushing at the small of Patrick’s back so his ass is up even higher than before. </p>
<p>“Jon,” he says and bites at his lip when he hears the whine in his own voice.</p>
<p>His cock is hanging between his legs, throbbing, and his fists are twisting at the pillow case, and Jonny’s eating him out like he’s trying to prove he’s the goddamn champion at it, because of course he is - and it’s too much. Too much.</p>
<p>“Yeah, baby?” Jonny asks. His voice is as ragged as Patrick feels. He reaches down and clasps his hand around Patrick’s cock, languidly stroking him. “Talk to me.”</p>
<p>“More,” he says, mostly muffled into the pillow. <i>Fuck.</i></p>
<p>“Say it louder,” Jonny orders, firm but indulgent. He bites at Patrick’s left ass cheek, playful, and then moves back in, tongue probing at Patrick’s entrance until it slides inside.</p>
<p>Patrick’s momentarily mindless at the sweet slick slide of it, at how he can’t get enough. It’s so much easier to sink into how good this feels, disappear in it, when he doesn’t have to see Jonny looking at him.</p>
<p>“More,” he says, keening. “More, <i>please</i>,” he begs and fucks himself back against Jonny’s mouth until he comes.</p>
<p>Somewhere in the middle of it all, he remembers collapsing onto his front. He remembers Jonny cursing fiercely and pressing his body back over Patrick’s, covering the entire length of him. He remembers Jonny rutting over his ass, his big cock so wet rubbing over Patrick's hole - no, wait - it wasn’t Jonny who was wet. It was him - it was Patrick. Jonny made Patrick so wet, and then he made him sticky, spilling all over Patrick’s ass, his crease, rubbing the messy hot head of his thick cock over Patrick’s licked open hole and smearing the come there until Jonny and Patrick moaned in unison.</p>
<p>And then he remembers falling asleep in Jonny’s bed, waking up with Jonny’s body curled around his back, eating eggs and smoothies at Jonny’s breakfast bar, going on about the day like normal.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The family comes up for Christmas. Even his sisters are able to fly in with his parents this time. Patrick takes them out shopping, and to Morton’s for dinner on Christmas Eve. They watch all of the old classic holiday movies and unwrap presents on Christmas Day, as Mom makes turkey in Patrick’s mostly untouched kitchen, and Dad waits for football to come on. </p>
<p>Jackie’s too busy messing with her new iPhone to be involved in much conversation, but Erica and Jess ask Patrick a million questions about how his life is going, if he’s dating anyone, if they can come to a few playoff games after school is over for the year. As much as they want to see hockey for free, Patrick knows they also want a chance at hanging with the team afterwards. Erica already has that gleam in her eye, mischievous and only partly teasing.</p>
<p>Patrick says maybe, says he’ll think about it, because it’s more fun to watch them pout and squirm than give them the eventual yes they know they’ll pry free from him.</p>
<p>Around midnight, when most of his family has passed out, except for Erica and him, who are rewatching The Christmas Story for the eighth time that day, Patrick pulls his phone out and texts Jonny.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> What r u wearing?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> T-shirt with a hole in the collar and sweatpants.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Sexyyy</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> I know.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Ur the worst </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> I think you mean the best.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Have a nice Xmas?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Yeah Peeks it was really good.</i>
</p>
<p>“What are you smiling at your phone for?” Erica asks from the opposite end of the couch.</p>
<p>“I’m not,” Patrick says, biting at his bottom lip.</p>
<p>Erica laughs, turning back to the television. “Yeah, <i>sure</i>,” she says, mocking.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Did you?</i>
</p>
<p><i>I did</i>, Patrick writes back, and feels the corners of his mouth tugging up again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2010</b>
</p>
<p>Patrick’s quiet on the plane ride from Vancouver back to Chicago. He’s quiet as Paulie drives him from O’Hare to the Loop, and he spends the three following days, which mostly consist of team practice, team meetings, and moping around his apartment by himself, being simply very quiet.</p>
<p>He doesn’t want to think about the Olympics, but he can’t help how it keeps infiltrating his thoughts. All of the things he didn’t do.</p>
<p>All of the things he could’ve done.</p>
<p><i>Silver isn’t anything to be ashamed of</i>, Mom had said.</p>
<p><i>You tried your best</i>, Dad had added.</p>
<p>He could’ve tried harder. He could’ve played better.</p>
<p>Fucking Canada. It’s always goddamn Canada with their top to bottom stacked team, roster of all elite players, and next level coaching. They were even on their own home turf this year. They had almost every advantage.</p>
<p>It - Patrick doesn’t want to say it’s unfair. Nothing is helped or bettered by him focusing the blame where he couldn’t and can’t make a difference, where he couldn’t have been the change his team needed. But it still stings. It burns behind his eyelids so brightly when he thinks about how close he came to gold, how he lost gold.</p>
<p>To put it bluntly, it really fucking sucks.</p>
<p>And he’s miserable.</p>
<p>He tries to hide his disappointment around the boys. Most of them didn’t get picked to go to the Olympics, like Sharpy, and the last thing they want to see is him sad about bringing home a medal. It may be the wrong medal, but it’s a medal they won’t ever have, so Patrick gets it. He knows he needs to move on, get his shit together, and be ready to start playing Hawks hockey again.</p>
<p>He knows this and yet he’s in a foul mood all the way to New York, on edge during the game and arguing with anyone who doesn’t pass him the puck well when they’re on the ice. The power play is particularly atrocious and after one prime missed four-on-three chance in the third to tie it up, he eggs Jonny into a shouting match on the bench. Then he’s silent after the loss, throwing his gear off and showering faster than usual to get back on the bus.</p>
<p>As the team is heading back inside the hotel for the night, a small group of guys are discussing late dinner plans, just a few steps ahead of Patrick. He isn’t listening, not on purpose, zoned out and thinking of a long hot shower and sleep when he hears Duncs pipe up about the Olympics. He’s joking around, being a prick, but a harmless one, not anything Patrick isn’t used to.</p>
<p>“Kaner can come if he stops pouting,” Duncs says, and he’s laughing, it’s not serious. Patrick knows it’s not meant to hurt.</p>
<p>Yet it does. It’s like prodding a barely scabbed over wound, poking until it starts bleeding again. And it pisses him off enough that he doesn’t stop himself from blurting out a sharp, “Fuck off.”</p>
<p>Duncs’ eyes widen, just for a second, and his smile reshapes into something puckish. “Don’t be a sore loser. Come get dinner with us.”</p>
<p>“Nah, I’m good,” Patrick says, dismissive.</p>
<p>The grin slides off Duncs’ face, his lips thinning.</p>
<p>“Aww, did I hit a nerve?”</p>
<p>
  <i>Motherfucker.</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick never fights, and not just because he can’t, or doesn’t like to, but because he genuinely doesn’t have any interest in slamming his fist into faces. He’s thinking about how he might make an exception when Jonny shoulders up next to him, effectively moving him out of Duncs’ eye line.</p>
<p>“Hang it up, Duncs.”</p>
<p>“Or learn to take a joke maybe?” Duncs sneers.</p>
<p>He looks at Patrick more than at Jonny as he says it.</p>
<p>Jonny’s pursed mouth tightens. “I said enough.”</p>
<p>And Duncs, who never likes being told what to do, even on a good day, steps up into Jonny’s space, too close to his face, cups a hand around his own ear, and murmurs, “What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”</p>
<p>Patrick should’ve kept his stupid mouth shut, or maybe Duncs shouldn’t have been an asshole. Either way, this is escalating too fast. He wants to dip out, let them solve this on their own, or pull Jonny off with him so the idiot doesn’t get into a fight over a few meaningless words.</p>
<p>In the end Seabs walks up and wraps his arm around Duncs’ shoulders before Patrick can make a decision one way or the other. He draws Duncs from Jonny.</p>
<p>“O-kay. Duncan, let's get you some of those meatballs, alright bud? Tazer, we’ll see you in the morning,” he says, guiding them off.</p>
<p>Jonny’s still standing frozen to the spot, red-faced and defiant like he’s going to fight the empty area of Duncs’ ghost a minute later. On another day Patrick would try to calm Jonny down, but he’s tired and has zero patience left. Instead of sticking around he rolls his eyes and leaves Jonny to it, walking toward the elevators and getting inside.</p>
<p>Footsteps follow him from there until the two of them are back in their hotel room. Patrick can feel Jonny’s eyes on him the entire time he moves around, undressing, hanging up his suit, slipping on his sleep pants, his T-shirt, going to the bathroom to brush his teeth, and returning to bed to slip under the covers.</p>
<p>“Peeks,” Jonny says, soft, almost unsure.</p>
<p>Patrick’s turned on his side, away from the middle of the room, away from Jonny. “Hm?”</p>
<p>“I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen again.”</p>
<p>“It’s fine.”</p>
<p>The air feels thick despite the silence and Patrick’s mind immediately drifts to the gold medal game, the third period, Jonny chasing Patrick, who had the puck, and bumping him into the boards. </p>
<p>
  <i>“You think you’re too good to backcheck and help your teammates out?” Jonny says and he sounds so brutal, so intensely honest that it almost makes Patrick lose his footing on the ice.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Maybe score a goal first and get back to me,” he snaps and digs the puck out from the wall to pass it to Parise.</i>
</p>
<p>Jonny had scored less than five minutes later.</p>
<p>Canada had won.</p>
<p>And Patrick had lost.</p>
<p>“Want to pick what we have for dinner?” Jonny asks, his voice so gentle and different from that day.</p>
<p>It’s not his fault. He just played the way he always plays. He doesn’t know how not to be all or nothing, to give it his everything. Same as Patrick.</p>
<p>Fuck it anyway.</p>
<p>“I think I’m just going to sleep,” Patrick says, curling into his pillow. “But thanks.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>There’s a four game homestand after the team returns from New York. They win back to back games against the Oilers and Canucks, lose the third to the Wings, and have two days off before they play the Kings. Patrick takes the opportunity to be a lazy bum and sleep in until noon. </p>
<p>The chiming from his phone is what wakes him, alerting him to a few texts from Mom, a few from Sharpy asking about getting lunch, and another from Erica asking if he’s feeling better today to which he responds, “Meh.” She immediately sends him a meme of Sad Keanu, sitting on a park bench, enjoying a sandwich, and looking predictably sad.</p>
<p>He’s about to write and tell her exactly how not funny she is when a new text comes in.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Busy?</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick sets his phone back on his nightstand.</p>
<p>He flips over in bed, shoves his face into his pillow, and seriously contemplates trying to go back to sleep. His bed is so comfy and everything else is so lame.</p>
<p>But Jonny.</p>
<p>Well, okay, Jonny’s lame too.</p>
<p>He probably wants to make Patrick go work out at some new hippie gym, or try some new fancy salad bar, or analyze game tape from the Red Wings game. Actually the last one doesn’t sound so bad. Patrick might be into doing that if he can eat a greasy burger and fries while it’s happening, then suck Jonny’s dick after.</p>
<p>His phone chimes again, but Patrick doesn’t pull his head from the pillow yet, entangled in the thought of Jonny appearing in his bedroom, right now, naked but for a pair of low slung sweatpants, his fat cock bulging against the seam. He’d climb into Patrick’s bed and throw off the sheets, that idiot smirk on his face the entire time. Somewhere in the middle, those glorious pants would disappear. And Patrick would turn over, already bare, legs spread, to let Jonny settle on top of him, rub his big cock against him, into him, inside…</p>
<p>Nope.</p>
<p>Stop right there.</p>
<p>Patrick removes the hand currently sliding up and down his dick and curls it into a fist by his side. He lets out a long, frustrated sigh.</p>
<p>The fuck was that?</p>
<p>He doesn’t - he can’t - he just. <i>Shit.</i></p>
<p>Even his own thoughts are against him now. There is no escape. It’s good he has this small break from Jonny, to clear his head of everything, of the Olympics, of the sex, of the mess with Kesler, of Jonny’s stupid, soft voice in the handshake line telling him he should be proud of himself for how well he played, all of it.</p>
<p>It’s good to have time away from each other, to focus on life outside of hockey, or at least hockey not tangled up in Jonny.</p>
<p>It’s a great idea.</p>
<p>Patrick’s a genius.</p>
<p>So honestly, it’s kind of inexplicable why, when he picks up his phone to tell Jonny he’s busy later, he instead responds: <i>No. Why?</i></p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Don't make plans. Coming over later.</i>
</p>
<p>He doesn’t expand on what “later” means and Patrick doesn’t ask. In fact, he decides not to think about it, or Jonny, or anything at all for the rest of the day. He rewatches the Lost finale as he didn’t get to really focus on it the first time around, then spends an hour fiddling with some football game app on his phone, does a short workout since he feels too guilty doing nothing much of anything otherwise, and then gets wrapped up in answering old emails while a Forensic Files marathon plays in the background.</p>
<p>By the evening, he’s starving, now wondering where Jonny is, possibly wondering what to eat for dinner when there’s a knock on the door. Patrick takes his time getting up from the couch and walking over, the knocking only increasing in sound and frequency the closer he gets until he pulls the door open.</p>
<p>Jonny’s on the other side in a knitted beanie, a gray hoodie, black sweatpants, and carrying a big paper shopping bag, looking exasperated.</p>
<p>“Stop banging. You’ll disturb my neighbors,” Patrick says, just to be a shit.</p>
<p>Jonny’s entire face scrunches up in offense. “I wasn’t banging. Don’t wait forever to answer,” he says and thrusts the bag in Patrick’s direction. “Here, take this.”</p>
<p>“What’s this?”</p>
<p>“Take it and you’ll see.”</p>
<p>Patrick takes it with a sigh, stepping back to let Jonny inside. “So you just came over here to boss me around? Fun.”</p>
<p>“No. I came over here to bring you dinner.”</p>
<p>Jonny proceeds to kick his tennis shoes off in the general direction of the door, where a few of Patrick’s pairs are nicely and neatly lined up in a cubby nearby. He could make an effort to place his shoes in one of the cubes since he bothered to take them off and all, but he won’t and he doesn’t. </p>
<p>Patrick rolls his eyes and takes a peek inside the bag. “I hope it’s not that place that makes wheatgrass soup because if so - oh. Chicago Cut.”</p>
<p>“Yep,” Jonny says.</p>
<p>“Is it that bearnaise sauce?”</p>
<p>“Yep.”</p>
<p>“And a bone-in strip steak with truffle potatoes?”</p>
<p>“Yep,” he says again, smug.</p>
<p>Patrick’s stomach takes the opportunity to gurgle in the most embarrassingly loud fashion. “I guess you can stay,” he says, almost casual.</p>
<p>Jonny’s grin, which was already impossible, widens further. “Thought so.”</p>
<p>He watches as Jonny reclaims the bag from him and walks into his kitchen, setting it down on the counter and going about the task of getting plates out of the cupboard. Observing from the doorway, Patrick watches him, guilt slowly creeping in. He’s been terse with Jonny ever since the gold medal game. The cold shoulder, the silence, the agitation, and feigned indifference, he thinks Jonny gets it. There hasn’t been any lashing out from Jonny’s end, he hasn’t held any of it against Patrick, has been nothing but patient in the face of Patrick’s mourning.</p>
<p>It’s irritating as hell how well he deals with it all. Patrick knows himself enough to realize in the reverse he’d probably give Jonny three days, maybe four, and then he’d be over this sad-sack routine and ready to move on. Just another reason Jonny is captain and he’s not. Just another reason Jonny’s perfect and he’s not.</p>
<p>Because he’s not good enough.</p>
<p>The resentment and sadness is boiling up again. Patrick can feel it in his blood, hot and bubbling, making him want to lash out, possibly run away, but not cry. Fuck crying. </p>
<p>He’s not doing that again.</p>
<p>Taking a steadying breath, he scrubs a hand over his face, and tugs at the hem of his shirt to pull himself together. He forces himself to focus on Jonny scooping the boxed up food onto Patrick’s plates, staring as Jonny methodically removes his own steak from the tinfoil packaging, then lifts it gingerly up and down. He goes back for his asparagus and rice, reaching for a spoon from the utensil drawer to scoop it up. Then he’s repeating the process with Patrick’s steak, moving onto his truffle potatoes next. He pops one of the smaller potatoes in his mouth, eyes flicking over to Patrick to see if he was caught in the act and smiling at Patrick’s immediate, huffed out, “<i>Hey</i>.”</p>
<p>God, he’s stupid. And Patrick just wants - he <i>wants</i>. </p>
<p>The food is almost ready on the plates and Jonny’s finishing clearing up the take away boxes when Patrick steps up behind him and leans his forehead against Jonny’s back, trying to shore himself up.</p>
<p>“Peeksy,” Jonny says, soft like that night in New York, and turns around. </p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t move away and there’s no space between them, not really, not enough to matter.</p>
<p>His skin feels tight, like he's a tire that’s been pumped too-full of air and is almost ready to explode. Jonny pulls him in by the back of the neck, holds him close with his big palm cradling Patrick’s head, twists the release valve, and lets all of the air out. And Patrick exhales, and he shutters, and he finally deflates.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” he says, muffled into Jonny’s warm chest.</p>
<p>“Anytime,” Jonny says, and brings him in closer.</p>
<p>The food is so good Patrick doesn’t so much chew it as he does shovel it all in his mouth and swallow. It’s surprising that he doesn’t choke, but, then again, he has a pretty big mouth. Jonny eats like he’s still in the fourth grade, like maybe he’s a cow, munching on his food as if there’s a huge wad of gum inside his mouth. It’s kind of gross and Patrick can’t stop watching him.</p>
<p>“What?” Jonny asks around a particularly big bite of prime rib.</p>
<p>“Wanna watch a movie?” Patrick says, looking away. “I got The Hangover the other day. It’s supposed to be pretty funny.”</p>
<p>Jonny smiles, small and surprised. “Yeah. Sounds good.”</p>
<p>Patrick turns off the Rangers vs. Habs game and sticks the DVD in. They settle in and finish up eating while the movie begins, the earlier tension in Patrick’s shoulders now gone. As he takes his last bite, Patrick considers licking his plate clean of any residual truffle butter left over from the potatoes, because fuck, those are almost better than sex.</p>
<p>Almost.</p>
<p>He decides against it, reclining back in his chair and letting his belly digest all of the yummy, fatty calories he’s no doubt going to have to bust his ass in the gym tomorrow and the next day to get rid of. Worth it though - totally worth it.</p>
<p>An hour passes and Patrick can’t keep himself from fidgeting. He’s lucky the movie doesn’t require much attention because his focus is shot, head full of thoughts that won’t slow down and won’t quit. He keeps glancing at Jonny laid out on his couch like he owns it, legs crossed at the ankles and head resting carefree on one of the throw pillows Mom bought to “spruce up the place”.</p>
<p>Jonny’s half-watching the movie and half-scrolling through his phone. From this distance, Patrick can tell he’s checking the NHL app, looking at the scores of the ongoing games. He grumbles under his breath as he passes by the Canucks vs. Flames score, a few choice words that sound like: <i>goddamn,</i> and <i>Kesler,</i> and <i>little bitch.</i> Patrick chokes back the laugh threatening to burst forth from his mouth and forces himself to relax  into his seat, even as heat begins to pool low in his belly.</p>
<p>There was this night around midway through the Olympics when Patrick was in his room in the American section of the Olympic village, hanging out by himself as Kesler, his roommate, had found company of the female figure skating variety to keep him busy for the evening and then came a familiar banging on his door. It was Jonny, because of course it was Jonny. No one else would dare to knock like they fucking owned a place they’d never been to before in the way he would, or act as impatient if not immediately let inside. He’d seemed pissed off as soon as Patrick had greeted him, pushing his way into Patrick’s room and shutting and locking the door behind them both. </p>
<p>“What’s up?” Patrick had said, taken off guard by Jonny’s sudden appearance and his unexpected anger.</p>
<p>“Is Kesler here?” Jonny had asked, practically spitting the name out like it tasted foul on his tongue.</p>
<p>“No?” Patrick laughed and then was unceremoniously shoved up against the nearest wall as Jonny’s hand had appeared out of thin air, dipping right down into his pants, to cup around his dick.</p>
<p>There was no build up, no fanfare, just Jonny pressed to his body, one of his thick thighs in between Patrick’s as he began to roughly jack Patrick off. And the blood had rushed so quickly south Patrick had felt dizzy and stupid with it.</p>
<p>“What the fuck?” he’d slurred, already worked up beyond belief, after only a few minutes, clinging to Jonny’s shoulders and trying to wiggle his own hand into Jonny’s shorts. “Is this about earlier? In the dining hall?”</p>
<p>Jonny grunted instead of answering, curling into Patrick’s body almost like he wanted to envelope him entirely, his mouth finding Patrick’s neck and beginning to suck a mark there. Teeth scraped over his skin, biting, but not hard enough to leave a mark, and Patrick shivered.</p>
<p>Earlier that day - hell - half that first week, Kesler had made it his mission to mess with Jonny whenever they crossed paths. It often ended up happening during the moments when Team USA and Team Canada passed by each other on their way in or out of the rink for practice, or during meals. </p>
<p>“He looks over here a lot,” Kesler had said, after the third morning they were in Vancouver.</p>
<p>“Who?” Patrick asked.</p>
<p>“Toews.”</p>
<p>“Well, that’s because he doesn’t like you,” Patrick had joked. In reality, Patrick didn’t know how Jonny felt about Kesler beyond thinking he was a general nuisance whenever the Hawks played the Canucks. He made the comment offhand, not really wanting to explain Jonny’s...Jonnyness to someone like Kesler, and not considering that Kesler might see it as a challenge.</p>
<p>Kesler had then taken to wrapping his arm around Patrick’s shoulders, tugging on Patrick’s shirt, and being in Patrick’s personal bubble whenever he knew Jonny was going to be around. If Kesler bothered to listen to Patrick any of the times Patrick told him getting under Jonny’s skin like this wouldn’t work, maybe he could’ve made an actual difference on the ice. Jonny didn’t care if someone was hanging on Patrick.</p>
<p>He probably came over unannounced because he knew Patrick wasn’t hooking up with anyone. </p>
<p>They still weren't talking about it.</p>
<p>And now Patrick was plastered to a wall, held up by Jonny as Jonny’s big hand fisted his dick.</p>
<p>“He was just fucking with you,” Patrick had moaned.</p>
<p>He’d slid his palm from the crown of Jonny’s cock all the way down the long length of him, up, up, and up again, then down, down, until Jonny groaned pleasingly low and guttural.</p>
<p>“He’s a bitch,” Jonny’d bit out. “Fuck him.”</p>
<p>“He’s not so bad,” Patrick teased, just to see Jonny’s eyes flare and feel his hands tighten around Patrick. </p>
<p>“Don’t.”</p>
<p>“Jonny,” he’d said, when Jonny started to pull away, as if he was mad. Patrick touched their foreheads together. “Jon, c’mon. You know you’re better.”</p>
<p>Jonny had whimpered like he’d been struck and lost it, spilling and not even missing a beat as he’d brought Patrick with him seconds later. They’d stayed pressed to the wall for minutes after, Patrick almost entirely held up by Jonny’s arms and not his own trembling legs.</p>
<p>The sound of music playing drags Patrick from his thoughts back to the present. On TV, the ending credits of The Hangover are running and Jonny’s still stretched out on the couch, perusing his phone. Patrick wonders what Jonny would do if he just walked over there and climbed into his lap, started rubbing himself along Jonny’s dick.</p>
<p>“The Stars are absolutely spanking the Blues right now. Want to catch the third period?” Jonny asks, turning his head to look at Patrick, who’s seated slightly behind him.</p>
<p>He knows Jonny can’t read his thoughts; obviously he can’t, this isn’t a Twilight movie. But for a second he imagines Jonny can see right into his mind and the pornographic film being projected in there and his cheeks heat.</p>
<p>“Don’t want to watch the Canucks game? Check out how Kesler’s playing tonight?” Patrick asks as a distraction. To himself or to Jonny is a mystery.</p>
<p>Jonny makes a disgruntled face and turns forward again, attention back on his phone. “Do I want to watch a useless sack of shit skate around and get nothing done on the ice? No. No I don’t. Do you?”</p>
<p>“Not particularly.”</p>
<p>“Okay then,” Jonny says, less pissy now. “So, the Stars vs. Blues?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, grabbing the remote and switching the TV over from the DVD setting back to cable.</p>
<p>Patrick bites at his thumbnail, needing to do something with his hands. “That’s one option.”</p>
<p>“You have something else in mind?” </p>
<p>His tone is relaxed, like he could take or leave whatever Patrick’s about to offer. </p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Patrick says, trying to match his tone. He can be chill too. He can be the very chillest. He can be straight up negative twenty degrees, winter in Buffalo, New York chilly. “Maybe.”</p>
<p>“Like?” Jonny asks, a challenge.</p>
<p>“Your dick.”</p>
<p>“What about my dick?”</p>
<p>Patrick sucks in a shaky breath and looks to the floor. Jonny’s eyes aren’t on him, and it's good, easier for him to swallow around the fist in his throat and casually say, “You think that monster would fit inside me?”</p>
<p>Jonny drops his phone on his face.</p>
<p>He rubs at his nose for a beat and then twists his body around until he’s inelegantly sitting up on the couch, his shirt askew. “Are you serious?”</p>
<p>“Um, yeah,” Patrick says and it’s mostly true, even if his stomach is swooping like he’s in a car and it just dipped.</p>
<p>Jonny stands, dropping his phone on the couch, forgotten. “Do you have lube?”</p>
<p>“Yeah.”</p>
<p>“Let’s go,” he says, walking over to where Patrick’s sitting and holding out his hand for Patrick to take. “Let’s go to your room.”</p>
<p>“Now?”</p>
<p>“You want to wait until the game is over?”</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Okay then,” Jonny says, intense. Everything about him feels turned up right now, his voice, his expression, the way he’s jiggling his hand in front of Patrick, impatient for him to take it.</p>
<p>His shirt is still askew, and his hair is ruffled on one side. It softens everything else.</p>
<p>Patrick takes his hand and is immediately pulled up, and then up, and then up and over until he’s in Jonny’s arms and hanging over his shoulder like a rag doll as Jonny spins on one foot, turns, marching them out of the living room and down the hall.</p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Patrick laughs, a little breathless. “You fucking maniac.”</p>
<p>Once they’re in Patrick’s bedroom, Jonny plops Patrick down on the middle of his unmade bed and begins to undress. It doesn’t take much time or effort. He’s already shoeless and sockless; he took his hoodie off earlier and flung it over the back of the couch. All that’s left is to pull off his T-shirt and push down his sweatpants and boxer briefs in one smooth motion. And then he’s standing at the foot of Patrick’s bed like Patrick imagined him earlier: broad, big, thickly muscled, with his cock hanging heavy and fat between his legs. He’s not fully hard yet, just growing, and Patrick’s balls tighten at the sight, heat simmering down low.</p>
<p>“Where’s your lube? Nightstand? Or should I go to my car?” Jonny asks. He moves around Patrick’s room like he’s in a hurry, like he thinks Patrick might change his mind and bolt.</p>
<p>Joke’s on him, though; Patrick’s wanted this since Jonny shoved him up against a wall in Vancouver. Maybe before. Not that he’s thought about it much.</p>
<p>He hasn’t.</p>
<p>Also this is his apartment. He isn’t going anywhere.</p>
<p>“Why would you go to your car?” Patrick asks, trying to concentrate on the thread of the conversation.</p>
<p>Jonny’s rifling through Patrick’s nightstand without asking. Kind of rude, but if he’s on a mission Patrick won’t stop him.</p>
<p>“In case you were out or didn’t have any. I have extra.”</p>
<p>“You keep extra lube in your car? How many hook-ups do you have, dude?” He didn’t mean to let that last part out. Jonny’s naked body is distracting. It’s fucking with his train of thought.</p>
<p>“Uh,” Jonny says, pausing. He coughs and resumes shuffling through Patrick’s bottomless drawer after a moment, pulls out a tube. “Oh, wait I found some. Strawberry? Really?”</p>
<p>Patrick shrugs. “I like how it smells.”</p>
<p>Jonny closes the drawer and comes back to the foot of the bed, looking Patrick up and down, surveying, eyes still dark and intent, shark-like in their fierceness.</p>
<p>“Why aren’t you getting undressed?”</p>
<p>Patrick shivers. And he tries to hide it by plastering a smirk on his face, crossing his legs at the ankles as he folds his arms behind his head. He’s relaxed. He isn’t in any hurry, unlike Jonny. He can wait all night, unbothered. He is good to go.</p>
<p>“I was enjoying watching you scramble around,” he says, shooting Jonny that toothy smile he hates.</p>
<p>Jonny’s brow scrunches up. “I wasn’t scrambling.”</p>
<p>“Pretty eager to get up in this, huh?” Patrick gestures down the length of his body. “I can understand. I’m hot.”</p>
<p>Jonny's cheeks redden, his forehead wrinkling and smoothing out as he rolls his shoulders, like he’s telling himself to calm down. “You’re alright. Adequate.”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs to hide the sting from Jonny’s joke. It’s just a joke. And, if nothing else, Jonny’s anaconda of a dick is at least pleased with Patrick if the way it’s thickening by the second before Patrick’s eyes is any indication. It’s pleasing to see.</p>
<p>“Acceptable?” Patrick asks, uncrossing his ankles and pulling up his knees.</p>
<p>“I guess,” Jonny says, almost indifferent.</p>
<p>Patrick tries to laugh again, but it comes out weak and strangled even to his own ears. He sits up, wrapping one arm around his knees and lets his eyes fall away from Jonny’s body. </p>
<p>It’s just a joke.</p>
<p>Like when guys fuck around in the locker room, throwing barbed remarks at each other. It doesn’t mean anything, mostly. Patrick’s been called enough offensive names on and off the ice by opponents and teammates that he knows to let it fall off his back. Don’t let it sink in, don’t take it seriously.</p>
<p>And Jonny isn’t even - he’s not - he’s just joking.</p>
<p>“Peeks?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>Jonny climbs onto the bed gingerly, moving up until he’s hovering over Patrick’s body. He tugs gently on one of Patrick’s loose curls.</p>
<p>“Lift your arms.”</p>
<p>Patrick swallows, inhaling slowly, and meets Jonny’s eyes. He forces himself to smile.</p>
<p>“You gonna tie me to the bed, Tazer?”</p>
<p>Jonny shakes his head. “Not tonight. Maybe some other time,” he murmurs. “Lift ‘em.”</p>
<p>Some other time? Patrick's brain trips over. Lift what, he thinks, caught in the soft curve of Jonny’s mouth. A hand nudges his arm from around his knees and up, and he realizes Jonny wants his shirt off. That’s okay, Jonny can take his shirt off. Jonny can take all of his clothes if he wants them.</p>
<p>“Right leg,” Jonny says, low. “Left.” He’s leaning up now, far enough away he can take off Patrick’s socks, but close enough he can undo Patrick's pants. He peels them away with Patrick’s underwear, Patrick bare all over now, just like him. “Lay back.”</p>
<p>Jonny stares at him for a minute. His gaze drawing up and down Patrick’s naked body, down, up, down. Come here, Patrick wants to say. Goosebumps pebble up all over his skin, and he considers pulling the comforter over himself, covering up, but then Jonny’s there, in between his legs, pressing down over him.</p>
<p>His skin is so warm that Patrick shivers again and doesn’t stop himself from wrapping his legs and arms around Jonny, pulling him the rest of the way in.</p>
<p>“God, you’re…” Jonny breathes. He’s staring at Patrick still, staring and looking. He’s looking so closely, like he’s trying to study every pore and imperfection on Patrick’s face.</p>
<p>Does he have a pimple? He probably should’ve washed his face before he went to bed last night.</p>
<p>“What?” He wants to touch his face, to check there isn’t something embarrassing like a booger hanging from his nose, but he doesn’t want to let go of Jonny either.</p>
<p>“You know.”</p>
<p>“I really don’t.”</p>
<p>Jonny ducks his head so his lips are grazing Patrick’s jaw. He rocks his hips down, rubbing their cocks together as he says, “You’re beautiful.”</p>
<p>“Stop,” Patrick moans, and turns his face into his pillow.</p>
<p>Lips drag over his neck. “You are.”</p>
<p>Patrick screws his eyes shut. “Get this show on the road, Tazer. Your dick. In me. Go!”</p>
<p>A soft puff of air against his ear and two big hands fit to the backs of Patrick's thighs. They slide down and cup his ass as Jonny whispers, “Let me take my time.”</p>
<p>Maybe if he keeps his eyes closed he can float while Jonny does whatever he wants. If Patrick doesn’t have to look, he can just feel and not think.</p>
<p>“Maybe I’ll nap while I wait,” he mumbles into his pillow. A pinch comes out of nowhere, right on the bottom curve of his ass. “Ow!”</p>
<p>“You want this?” Jonny asks. He doesn’t sound hurried but his hands won’t stop moving over Patrick; his palms are sweaty. He keeps clutching at Patrick’s ass, lifting his hips just enough that Jonny can grind down into him, rub their dicks together in a slick slide. Jonny’s cock is fully hard now, so long it glides over Patrick’s belly.</p>
<p>“That’s what I’ve been saying,” Patrick huffs and undulates his hips, trying to get Jonny’s cock lower, so he’ll rub it on his clenching hole.</p>
<p>Jonny stills and lets his weight become heavy on top of Patrick, so neither of them can move. A thumb and forefinger hook around Patrick’s chin and turn his head, and a hand cups around his cheek, gentle.</p>
<p>Patrick should open his eyes. He can feel Jonny waiting for him to open his eyes, can feel Jonny looking at him, and nowhere else.</p>
<p>“Tell me you want it,” Jonny says, shaky. “That you want me - me inside you.”</p>
<p>“I…”</p>
<p>There are lips brushing his jaw, tracing over his chin and up, touching his mouth, not taking, just there, caught.</p>
<p>Patrick clutches at Jonny’s back, digging his fingers into skin, and squeezes his eyes shut like they might fly open if he lets them. “I want you to fuck me,” he whispers. “Jonny, I want it.”</p>
<p>In answer he feels a tender kiss on his pulse point, hears a shuttered breath, like a swallowed back moan against his skin. Jonny eases up, off of him, and then comes the snap of a bottle cap opening. Another minute and Patrick’s right leg is lifted and bent, pushed back towards his chest, the same repeated with his left, until Patrick’s completely exposed and open. Two warm, slick fingers circle his hole, around the edge of his rim, closer in, in, out again, and in. </p>
<p>Patrick moans, the sensation soothing and sweet, and he doesn’t have to focus on anything else while he’s in darkness, just the touch of Jonny’s fingers and the soft way he’s pressing at Patrick’s hole, asking to be let inside. Everything else fades away, hockey, the Olympics, the shit Duncs said, the disappointment of USA fans’ faces, his parents' pity, all of it.</p>
<p>In this room it’s just him and Jonny, and Jonny’s hands on his body, making him feel seriously fucking excellent. He’s floating like some wayward scrap of paper, blowing up higher and higher in the sky by the wind and he doesn’t care if he comes down, not when Jonny gets the first finger inside him and certainly not when he gets the second one in, the both of them twisting up into him until they touch a spark and Patrick almost bursts into flames.</p>
<p>“What the fuck?!” he gasps, eyes flashing open as he arches up off the bed so hard Jonny has to catch him and lower him down with his other arm.</p>
<p>He looks immediately to Jonny and he doesn’t know what possible expression he has on his face, but whatever it is, it must be right, it must be good.</p>
<p>Jonny’s eyes are hooded and so dark they’re almost consumed with black, his cheeks are ruddy and his neck sweaty, but he’s smiling, pleased and sexy. “Your prostate. Feels good, eh?”</p>
<p>Patrick sucks in a breath, almost unable to speak and nods. “Do it again.”</p>
<p>Jonny does, he does it again and again, until he’s three fingers deep inside Patrick and rubbing over that spot so consistently that Patrick’s dick is leaking a steady stream all over his abs, until his toes are curling and his balls are close to exploding.</p>
<p>“Now,” Patrick says. “Now or I’m gonna come.”</p>
<p>“We should try for four fingers probably. You’re pretty tight,” Jonny says, his forehead wrinkled with concern.</p>
<p>“It’s fine. I’ll be fine.”</p>
<p>Jonny doesn’t look convinced. He sits there for a beat staring at Patrick’s ass, still pumping his fingers in and out of Patrick methodically, like he’s trying to work out a fucking puzzle.</p>
<p>“You insert object A into slot B, dude. It’s not rocket science. Let’s go!”</p>
<p>Jonny frowns at him. “Don’t rush me.”</p>
<p>“I will rush you,” Patrick says, contrary. “You’re taking forever.”</p>
<p>Jonny doesn’t move.</p>
<p>His own hands rake through his hair, Patrick tugging at the ends, frustrated. “Please,” he begs. He sinks his fingers into the pool of precome on his belly, then reaches over and takes Jonny’s big dick in his grasp. He begins to stroke Jonny leisurely, coating his cock until it’s good and wet, especially around the head, and jacks him off with all of the skill and talent a first round draft pick has to offer.</p>
<p>Jonny’s eyes briefly roll back in his skull as he fucks forward into Patrick fist, his fingers that went still inside of Patrick beginning to move again, pumping and rocking into him, over his prostate, lighting him up.</p>
<p>“C’mon,” Patrick breathes. “<i>Jonny.</i>”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Jonny says, on a low groan. “Okay.”</p>
<p>He pulls his fingers free gently, but they still leave an emptiness that makes Patrick want to clench down and close his legs, draw Jonny close so he can curl into him and not into nothing.</p>
<p>Jonny wipes his fingers on Patrick’s comforter, the shithead, and moves to grab the condom he pulled from his pocket earlier. It has the black and gold packaging and says Magnum on the front of the foil packet, because of course it does.</p>
<p>Patrick snorts as Jonny rips the packet open with his teeth and then slides it down the long length of his huge cock. He picks the bottle of strawberry lube up, squirting a palmful into his hand and slathering it down his dick. What remains he rubs over Patrick’s hole, feeding more than Patrick’s expecting inside of him.</p>
<p>“Whoa,” Patrick says. “You don’t need to use the whole bottle.”</p>
<p>“I’m not using the whole bottle. I’m using enough so it won’t be dry,” Jonny explains.</p>
<p>“It feels like I’m wet enough you could fit an entire Jiffy Lube up my ass.”</p>
<p>Jonny snorts and spreads Patrick’s legs apart. He doesn’t lower himself down like Patrick expects him to, but stays up on his knees, grabbing at Patrick’s hips and dragging him close. Petting at Patrick’s thighs, he massages out any tension, even though Patrick’s already mostly loose-limbed. </p>
<p>He’s ready.</p>
<p>He thinks he’s ready.</p>
<p>“Jonny,” he says, not trying to hide the pleading tone in his voice any longer. “Please.”</p>
<p>Jonny flicks his eyes up to Patrick, face solemn. “Tell me if I hurt you. If you need me to stop.”</p>
<p>“I won’t.”</p>
<p>“Promise me anyway.”</p>
<p>It’s Caring Canadian Captain to the rescue!</p>
<p>Patrick nods, figuring Jonny won’t let up until he agrees. “Promise.”</p>
<p>And then something spectacular happens. Jonny leans in and rubs his cockhead against Patrick’s hole, circling it like he did with his fingers. Patrick feels hypnotized by the sensation of it, and by the way Jonny stares at where their bodies are meeting as if he’s transfixed by it too, like he can’t look away.</p>
<p>The first push is all pressure. Patrick was expecting it; it’s not too different from the push of Jonny’s three fingers thrusting inside him. He can do this. He can definitely do this.</p>
<p>And then.</p>
<p>And then the pressure builds, and it builds, and it’s bigger than Jonny’s fingers, bigger than an entire fist, it feels  -  too big to fit inside him, he knows. It hurts in a distant way, like he’s moving in water and can’t grab onto anything solid, it’s too much. </p>
<p>“Holy fuck,” Jonny moans, like the air’s been sucked out of him.</p>
<p>Patrick reaches out with one hand. He doesn’t know what he’s reaching for, what he’s trying to find, but Jonny clasps it with his own, threading their fingers as the head of his cock pops all the way in - inside of Patrick - and he squeezes Jonny’s hand, and Patrick comes. The sound he makes is garbled and choked off, but Patrick can barely hear beside the rushing in his ears, the spasming of his body.</p>
<p>“<i>Baby</i>,” Jonny murmurs, voice full of gravel. He leans down like he wants to get closer, wants to push farther into Patrick’s body as Patrick’s clenching around him and spurting a stream of jizz up his own torso, but he can’t.</p>
<p>He <i>can’t</i>. </p>
<p>His body resists, Patrick can feel it, the way his hole is taut and clinging, unable to give anymore. Jonny’s arms come up under Patrick’s knees and push his legs back, spreading him wide and open. He tries again, short little thrusts of his hips, trying to fuck in deeper, trying to ease just the head of his dick inside. It’s too much.</p>
<p>Patrick’s still trembling from the aftershocks of his orgasm, brain rattled, and body like jello, but he forces himself to stop clenching down, to relax, to breathe. And then he realizes he’s not clenching and Jonny’s not moving. He’s stuck.</p>
<p>“Let me in,” Jonny says. He’s not impatient, just coaxing. He sits up a bit, to inspect the situation, and Patrick watches him grab the lube, open the bottle, add more. He spends a few minutes diligently rubbing it around Patrick’s stretched out rim, and that’s nice, soothing, but it doesn’t get Jonny much farther than another centimeter, at most, if Patrick had to guess.</p>
<p>The majority of his dick is still not inside Patrick and yet it feels like there’s an entire football team worth of dicks up there, more dicks than should ever be there, or in anyone, ever.</p>
<p>“You’re not letting me in,” Jonny sighs.</p>
<p>“I’m trying!” Patrick says, rocking his hips back, even when it makes him hiss. “Your dick’s too big. Oh my god, your dick is actually too big.”</p>
<p>He’s not going to laugh.</p>
<p>This is absolutely the wrong time to laugh.</p>
<p>“You’re too tight,” Jonny says, and he looks sad. He looks pained.</p>
<p>Patrick laughs. </p>
<p>“Don’t blame this on me. Blame it on your giant trouser snake,” he says, biting his lip to hide his laugh.</p>
<p>Jonny tries to lean in again, like he wants to touch Patrick, or comfort him, or maybe receive comfort at the disappointment of this all. Patrick feels for him, he does, but he also just. He can’t stop laughing.</p>
<p>The dick. The dick is <i>too</i> big.</p>
<p>“We’ll need to work at opening you up more,” Jonny mumbles, morose, and begins to slowly, achingly, withdraw from Patrick’s body. “More regularly.”</p>
<p>It leaves Patrick empty and sore, and a little bereft. He wants Jonny to lay on top of him until the feeling dissolves, but he won’t ask. Jonny probably wouldn’t even want that anyway.</p>
<p>“With your beef baton?” he snickers.</p>
<p>Removing the condom, Jonny drops it over the side of the bed. Gross. Someone is going to have to clean that up later, probably Patrick. Jonny’s still hard enough he could hammer nails with his dick if its angry red color is anything to go by. Patrick reaches out and pets at it gently along the middle, calming.</p>
<p>He receives an unamused look in return, but, Patrick notices, he also doesn’t move away from Patrick’s touch. “With my fingers. Or your fingers. We could try a toy, maybe,” Jonny says, stretching out beside Patrick in bed, and stares off for a moment as if thinking. “Or...a plug. Have you ever fingered yourself before?”</p>
<p>Patrick nods, then remembers Jonny isn’t looking at him. “Fingered myself? Sure.”</p>
<p>There’s a tweak to one of Patrick’s nipples, then Jonny trails his hand down, cupping Patrick’s swollen cock, newly erect. “Really?”</p>
<p>“You sound surprised. Have you?”</p>
<p>“You almost jumped off the bed when I massaged your prostate, Peeks,” Jonny explains. To further prove his point, he hooks two of his fingers back inside Patrick’s hole and rubs right over the spot in discussion.</p>
<p>Later Patrick will be mortified by the way he whines, high, and unexpectedly loud, squeezing around Jonny’s fingers as he bucks up uncontrollably. Jonny’s other hand, somehow slick and also very warm, wraps around Patrick’s dick, every thought blowing out of his head as he’s torn between thrusting up or down.</p>
<p>This goes on for minutes or maybe hours, Patrick can’t decipher time, only sensation, only the need to come again and again and again. When his orgasm hits, it feels like it’s pulled out of him by a never-ending string tugging him out of his body, out of earth. And as he falls back into reality, he reaches for Jonny. Only Jonny.</p>
<p>“Fucking hell, holy shit balls,” Patrick heaves. He might be cracking apart at the seams. He can’t tell and he can’t feel his body, not besides every inch of him tingling.</p>
<p>Jonny’s staring at him, pleased.</p>
<p>“Well, I’d,” Patrick says, trying to pick up the conversation. Words. Words and thoughts. He has them. He’s sure. “I, um, I’d only ever grazed it before. It’s a different experience. Clearly.”</p>
<p>“<i>Clearly</i>,” Jonny says, smug and dry. “But you liked it.”</p>
<p>“Liked it better with your Cock-a-saurus.”</p>
<p>“Oh my god.” Jonny pulls his fingers free and rolls on top of Patrick, hitching his legs up.</p>
<p>Patrick isn’t sure what he’s about to do, but he also doesn’t much care. Jonny can do whatever he wants, have whatever he wants. Patrick’s going to lie here and motherfucking tingle.</p>
<p>There’s enough come, precome, and lube smeared over Patrick’s entire lower half that it’s easy for Jonny to grind against him and quickly build up a good rhythm. He thrusts his dick over the crease in Patrick’s leg, then quickly moves lower, so he can press between Patrick’s ass cheeks, ride his wet hole.</p>
<p>He’s a little sore, but not so much he doesn’t want the drag of Jonny’s cock there, tugging at his rim, catching and trying to suck Jonny back inside.</p>
<p>“Rub off on me with your big dick,” Patrick says, watching Jonny’s sex concentration face. “Your lethal weapon.”</p>
<p>Jonny’s hips stutter.</p>
<p>“Your danger-the-one-eyed-ranger.” Patrick lowers his voice. “Your beast beneath.”</p>
<p>“Stop talking,” Jonny growls, his expression cracking open, his eyes desperate. Patrick barely gets to see it before he shoves his face into Patrick’s neck, and bites at the join of his shoulder.</p>
<p>Patrick gasps, curling his legs around Jonny’s back. “If you want....if you want to put the tip back in you can, Jon. You can stick it in me again.”</p>
<p>Digging his teeth into Patrick’s shoulder, Jonny grinds his cock over Patrick’s hole one last time, moaning, and spills. Immediately Patrick can feel it, the wet heat stripping up over Patrick’s balls, between his ass checks, dripping down onto his rim. He’s such a mess he can’t tell if any of Jonny’s come has been pushed inside him, but the thought and the feel of Jonny still on top of him, and the afterglow of his own orgasm still swirling around blows every little, insignificant thing out of his head.</p>
<p>It’s quiet, it’s warm, and it’s the best Patrick’s felt in weeks.</p>
<p>Jonny might be snoring lightly in his ear ten minutes later, arm resting on Patrick’s belly, and they’ll probably be crusty in the morning - they’re already sticky gross - but Patrick just pillows his head on Jonny’s chest and sleeps.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2010</b>
</p><p>There are days when Patrick hates morning skates. Usually it’s when he didn’t get enough sleep, or he’s still sour from a loss, or he knows Q is going to be in a bad mood and make them do drills the entire time. Today is not one of those days. The Hawks won against the Kings in a tight game last night, Patrick got an assist, and they have all of tomorrow off before they have to fly to Philly the day after.</p><p>Patrick’s in a good mood.</p><p>He’s first out on the UC ice. It’s a closed practice today and it’s quiet without fans or media around. He skates three laps, then circles back for a few of the pucks sitting in a bucket on the ledge of the bench. He’s stickhandling by a net when Jonny skates up behind him, bumping him, and throws off his aim so the shot he takes goes far right, the puck pinging off the goal post and flying to the boards.</p><p>Jonny’s amused grin isn’t half as cute as he thinks it is. </p><p>“Come over to my place after practice,” he says. He taps his stick against Patrick’s shin pad.</p><p>“You know what my favorite thing about you is, Tazer? How your questions are really just orders in disguise.”</p><p>Patrick returns to his stickhandling.</p><p>“You know what my favorite thing about you is, Kaner?” Jonny says. </p><p>It’s a set up, Patrick knows, and he ignores Jonny for a minute, just to make him wait to finish his joke. He’s not at all surprised when Jonny steals his puck and shoots it at the empty net. It flies straight forward, hitting the back mesh and falling to the ice. Goal.</p><p>“What’s that?”</p><p>Jonny skates around the net and up behind Patrick again, leaning in close to his ear this time. “How you like being told what to do.”</p><p>Patrick stares blankly forward and tries to focus on...something. The net in front of him, the stick in his hand, the puck by his skates. He refuses to let the shiver run through him.</p><p>For fuck’s sake, they’re at work. Nobody else is out on the ice yet and practice doesn’t begin for another five minutes, but it’s the principle of the thing, Jonathan!</p><p>“Hah,” Patrick laughs, dry. “Sure. Anyway, what’s up at your place?” </p><p>Jonny skates back in front of the net, just standing there now so Patrick can’t stickhandle or shoot unless he moves first. He’s not going to move first. Jonny can move first.</p><p>“I got you something.”</p><p>“Like what? Like a present?”</p><p>Jonny shrugs. “Maybe. You’ll have to come over and see.”</p><p>And with that parting comment he skates off, down to the other side of the rink where Seabs, Steeger, and Hoss have just come out.</p><p>“You’re a tease, Toews!” Patrick yells, without thinking, and receives an odd look from Hoss, who’s still fairly new around these parts. Seabs doesn’t bat an eye and Steeger looks gleeful at this new smidge of ammo to use later, somehow.</p><p>Patrick isn’t going to be able to think about anything else for the rest of the afternoon.</p><p>*</p><p>“I’m ready for my present now,” he says the second they walk through Jonny’s front door.</p><p>They ate an early lunch at the UC cafeteria and Patrick’s thankful for it now. There’s no bickering about what to have, no agonizing wait for it to get here, and no having to suffer through listening to Jonny crunch on his food while trying to listen to the TV.  None of it. He can just kick off his shoes, throw his hoodie on the couch, and open his hands up to receive said gift.</p><p>“It’s in my room,” Jonny says, busy taking off his own shoes. He walks into the kitchen when he’s done and opens the fridge, pulling out a bottle of water. </p><p>“Oh?” Patrick asks. He hasn’t moved from his spot by the couch.</p><p>Unscrewing the cap from his water, Jonny quickly downs the whole thing. Patrick watches his neck work, Adam’s apple bobbing, the hollow of his throat still a little wet from his post-practice shower. “You can go get it and bring it in here if you want, or we can open it on my bed.”</p><p>Patrick doesn’t wait to be told twice, spinning around and heading straight for Jonny’s room. His bed isn’t made this time, but it isn’t a rumpled mess either, the covers only pulled down slightly on one side. There’s a small, unmarked box sitting near the edge, a shipping label on one side, but no indication of what’s inside.</p><p>“What the hell is it?” Patrick asks, going directly to it and trying to unwrap it, pry it open. Jonny stands in the doorway, smirking at him. </p><p>There’s no way to get it open without a knife or something sharp, and Patrick has no nails to pick the tape off from the sides of the box. He huffs out an annoyed breath, tries to tear it in half with his bare hands. That doesn’t work either.</p><p>“And you call me impatient,” Jonny laughs. He crosses his arms over his chest, one leg over the other as he tilts his body into the door frame. He’s the definition of relaxed.</p><p>He’s having entirely too much fun with this.</p><p>“You <i>are</i> impatient,” Patrick bites out. “Just tell me what it is!”</p><p>“Open it and you’ll see.”</p><p>“Why do I even ask?” he sighs.</p><p>“I don’t know,” Jonny counters. “Why do you?”</p><p>The thought of throwing the box at Jonny’s head is one Patrick deeply considers.</p><p>Eventually he gets a piece of tape on the right side loose and after that, the rest of it’s easier to pick off until he finally has the damn thing open. There’s another, smaller box inside the shipping container, but this one is labeled with a picture and a description, and what he sees inside is...butt plugs. Lots of butt plugs. All black and of differing sizes, small to medium to large, in a neat little row on the cover.</p><p>The biggest plug is - well - it’s very big. Not as huge as Jonny’s dick, but large regardless. They’re bulbous in shape with a narrowed end on one side and a flat, flared end like a stopper on the other. Patrick’s not exactly sure what it’s for, maybe to keep the plug in place, but he’s just guessing. He’s never seen a plug in real life before, and only ever maybe once or twice in porn. His experience with sex toys is embarassingly low, and <i>oh god</i>, what the fuck is he doing? Are these for him?</p><p>He stares at the box for so long he’s startled when Jonny makes the bed dip as he takes a seat next to Patrick. He lifts the smaller box from the shipping container and begins to unpack the plugs. In total there’s five inside. <i>Five</i>.</p><p>That’s so many fucking plugs. Is Jonny wanting to shove multiple plugs up his ass at once? Why would he need so many plugs?</p><p>“They’re supposed to be the best for beginners. And they’re made of flexible silicone which shouldn’t irritate your skin unless...” Jonny takes the smallest plug from the plastic packaging. “You aren’t allergic to silicone right?”</p><p>“I don’t think so,” Patrick murmurs. He watches Jonny’s long, tan fingers move around the plug, holding it at its most narrow point and spinning it around.</p><p>“Also comes with real lube,” he grins.</p><p>“Stop shit-talking my lube, man. It works fine.”</p><p>Jonny shoots him an unimpressed look. “Does it though? Listen, this is water based, because that's what you have to use with silicone toys. Don't use anything else. Also it’s organic if you decide you want to try it.”</p><p>“If…” Patrick says and glances back at Jonny’s hand holding the plug. It doesn’t seem that intimidating compared to the biggest plug. In fact, it looks down right tiny. On its own, however, is an entirely different story. </p><p>Patrick shouldn’t be worried. He shouldn’t be. Not after trying to take Jonny’s huge dick on the first try. What’s a small little plug compared to Jonny’s cock? Nothing. A blip. It’s not a rational worry, but he’s suddenly thinking about the thing getting stuck inside him, or it feeling stiff and painful; of having some weird, black toy up his ass like he’s an inflatable pool floaty full of air.</p><p>A moment passes and Patrick can feel his face moving as his brain works, his pulse quickening further and further until Jonny’s warm hand is on Patrick’s upper thigh, squeezing, his thumb brushing over the inseam of Patrick’s sweatpants.</p><p>“You don’t have to. I just thought it might be a better way to work you up to taking me.”</p><p>Patrick’s eyes flicker down to all of the plugs still in the packaging. The different sizes make more sense now. He’ll presumably take one at a time until he’s ready for the next, bigger one. “Your dick, you mean.”</p><p>“Yes,” Jonny says, soft. His thumb has moved up Patrick’s thigh. It’s distractingly close to his balls now.</p><p>He could say no and Jonny wouldn’t mind. He just said Patrick didn’t have to, this is a choice. It’s all been a choice. It’s all for fun. The two of them screwing around like this, getting off together. And if it’s not anymore, Jonny’s too captainly to push it. Too good to pressure Patrick to keep going. Once upon a time, Patrick would’ve called him too wholesome as well, but now he knows better. Jonathan Toews may like to come off as the nice boy next door. Hell, he is the nice boy next door half the time, but he’s also the filthy man willingly wanting to stick a plug up Patrick’s ass for the purpose of stretching him out enough to take a cock, a very large one.</p><p>Knowing this shouldn’t calm him, but it does somehow, in some way. Enough so that Patrick can let out a long breath and smile at Jonny who’s watching him carefully, searching.</p><p>“Taking your huge, thick, fat, long, di-”</p><p>Jonny smacks a hand over his mouth. “Maybe I’ll stick one of the plugs in your yapper, too.”</p><p>Patrick shakes him off. “Ew. The ass stretchers are for my ass, Jon.”</p><p>“Anal plugs,” Jonny says, rolling his eyes. So precise, he could be a Sex ED teacher. If he’d taught Patrick in high school Patrick would’ve absolutely paid more attention.</p><p>“Are they for plugging or are they for stretching?”</p><p>Jonny’s brow does an amusing scrunching up and down move as he thinks that over. “Well, both.”</p><p>“I rest my case,” Patrick says.</p><p>“This is a stupid conversation,” Jonny mutters and stands. He takes the box of plugs, the lube, and the shipping packaging and sets it all on one of his dressers. Patrick wants to tell him not to put it all away yet, but he doesn’t want to make it too obvious.</p><p>Tapping his fingers against the comforter Patrick shifts and spreads his legs open a fraction of an inch. When he sees Jonny doesn’t notice he waits until Jonny glances over at him again and spreads them even further. “Do you want to put one in me now?” he asks.</p><p>Welp, so much for not being obvious.</p><p>Jonny turns, the smallest plug still in his grasp and his cheeks a little flushed. “I really do.”</p><p>He stares at Patrick for a beat, eyes going heavy-lidded. Patrick looks back at him, trying not to squirm, feeling the tips of his ears go hot. If Jonny’s going to stand there and watch him, Patrick might as well entice him to come closer. He tugs off his shirt first, then his pants, boxers, and lastly his socks. There’s something distinctly awkward about bending over naked to peel his socks from his feet, legs spread wide and hunched like a gremlin, but when he straightens up, Jonny’s still staring at him like he wants Patrick.</p><p>It’s enough to make Patrick swallow hard.</p><p>“Okay,” he mumbles.</p><p>Jonny undresses as he’s walking to the bed, smoothly losing one garment and then the next like he’s fucking practiced it in front of mirror. What a ridiculous human being Patrick’s about to be touched by, in various dirty ways. He’s naked by the time he hauls Patrick up the bed so they’re both lying in the middle of the mattress. He drops the plug and his snooty lube by the pillows and moves down again, between Patrick’s legs.</p><p>“I need to check you over first. Make sure everything is good from the other day.”</p><p>“Check me for what?” Patrick asks, but doesn’t stop Jonny from spreading his thighs apart or urging his hips up.</p><p>“Tears, soreness. Have you been sore? I fucked up and I didn’t do it that night,” Jonny says, glancing up, his mouth turned down, eyes regretful. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>Patrick snorts. “I’m fine.” He tries to stop the shiver shooting up his spine the second the warm pad of Jonny’s thumb rubs over his exposed hole. He almost succeeds too but for the gasp of sucked in air.</p><p>“I should’ve cleaned you up. It was irresponsible.” </p><p>“It’s alright. This isn’t hockey, Jon. You don’t have to be so…”</p><p>“So what?” Jonny asks. He sounds poised for an insult. “<i>Serious?</i>”</p><p>He gets so weirdly defensive at the strangest times and Patrick can never predict it, can never quite figure out when is a completely acceptable moment to rib him or when he should really let it go. Clearly this instant is one of those times. Patrick will have to think about why later, try to puzzle it out.</p><p>For now he shifts his hips, opens himself up further to Jonny’s inspection. “I was gonna say uptight.”</p><p>“Yeah I bet,” Jonny mumbles. He wets the tip of his pointer finger with his tongue and prods at Patrick’s flexing hole. </p><p>“Relax, please,” Patrick says, touching the top of Jonny’s head, fingers toying with his dark hair. “I’m good. I’m great. Ready for more even! But if you want to check my ass out, you can check my ass out.”</p><p>It looks clinical when Patrick watches him do it, like he’s at some doctor’s office for an exam. The thought almost makes him giggle - <i>fuck</i> - if he’s ever had a doctor’s appointment like this before. It’s both horrifying and amusing to consider. Until he replaces some nameless, faceless man poking at him with Jonny. Jonny in scrubs, a stethoscope around his neck, slipping plastic gloves onto his hands. Doctor Jonny ordering him onto the exam table, ordering him to strip off his clothes and get on his hands and knees for inspection…</p><p>His dick is hard and growing harder as the tip of Jonny’s spit-slick finger enters him, circling around his rim, tugging. Jonny’s face is so close he could lean in and lick Patrick if he wanted. </p><p>He could. If he was interested.</p><p>Patrick’s not going to ask. It’d probably be weird. It implies he’s been thinking about it since the last time it happened. And he hasn’t. He doesn’t think about any of this.</p><p>It’s just Jonny’s face is right there, so close, and his mouth is open and doing that dumb mouth-breathing thing he does, and his finger is dipping farther and farther inside of Patrick as Jonny continues his appraisal. Almost like maybe he’s enjoying himself as much as he’s checking Patrick over. But the tease of it all is becoming too much.</p><p>“Are you done yet?” Patrick huffs after another minute or two of Jonny’s gentle ministrations.</p><p>“Does it hurt?” Jonny asks, low. A pink tongue swipes out over Jonny’s bottom lip and Patrick’s brain goes fuzzy remembering how silky that tongue felt licking over his hole, pushing up inside of him.</p><p>He squeezes his eyes shut for a few seconds. “No.”</p><p>“You look good.”</p><p>“I always look good,” Patrick jokes, and squints one eye open to see if he can get Jonny to crack a smile.</p><p>Jonny’s head pops up between his legs, cheeks flushed and pupils almost entirely black. “Yeah,” he agrees, smirking, and Patrick’s the one to look away first.</p><p>The bed moves as Jonny shifts and then there’s the sound of the lube opening and warm, slippery fingers pressing to Patrick’s hole again. Jonny pauses, not pushing his fingers inside, just holding there long enough Patrick can’t help but check out what’s happening. He’s met with Jonny’s solemn expression.</p><p>“I’ll take my time. Finger you first, like I’ve done before and then try to ease the plug in slowly. If it still feels too tight we’ll go back to the fingering. I don’t want to rush anything. I’ll go as slow as you need. If it’s too much, tell me.”</p><p>Patrick shoves his head back against a pillow. He’s already tired of waiting. “You sound like a teacher. Stop explaining it to me.”</p><p>“I want you to know what’s happening,” Jonny says and he sounds distracted. Is he caught up in the technicalities of what he’s doing or if he’s doing it right? With Jonny it’s a toss up. Probably both.</p><p>“How’d you even know all this shit? Do you do it to yourself?”</p><p>“Plugs?” Jonny asks, like the idea is amusing. “No. I’ve tried fingers before. I wanted to know what it was like for the person I was fucking. But mostly I just researched.”</p><p>“Research,” Patrick sighs. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”</p><p>“Rather be ridiculous than hurt you.”</p><p>It’s too much.</p><p>It’s just too goddamn much.</p><p>Patrick can’t look at Jonny and have him pressing his fingers so slowly inside it’s basically medieval torture at this point, his other hand rubbing idly at the sensitive skin of Patrick’s inner thigh, and saying gross shit like that.</p><p>It hurts inside his chest. And he’s seriously considering turning away, getting up and walking out, but for the want weirdly clawing at him, urging him to stay, to let Jonny put that strange ass plug in his butt.</p><p>His life is...well. He can’t think about it right now.</p><p>He blows out a shaky breath and shoves the side of his face into the pillow, stares down at the dark blue fabric, smelling sandalwood and pine. “Jonny?”</p><p>“Yeah?”</p><p>“Please put it in me,” he whispers.</p><p>“Okay, Peeks,” Jonny says, low, and kisses the inside of Patrick’s thigh, the space under his balls, the low curve of his left ass cheek.</p><p>It feels nice, calming in a way, to have Jonny pet him even if usually the idea of someone doing so in bed would annoy the shit out of him. Maybe it’s because he can feel his heart beating inside of his ears, the shallow breaths he takes as Jonny slides in two fingers and then three. They’ve done this before, this is familiar, and even as that’s unsettling in its own way, it’s nothing compared to the jolt of surprise Patrick feels when Jonny removes his fingers and rubs the tip of the plug against Patrick’s ass.</p><p>It isn’t cold and it isn’t as hard as it first appeared, but it is unmistakably foreign, not made of flesh or warmth or anything Patrick’s used to. He bites at his lip and tries to focus on anything but himself, what he’s doing, what he’s letting happen to him.</p><p>His eyes flicker down to Jonny, solid and broad-shouldered between his legs, his face still red and blotchy, his attention so focused on Patrick you’d think he was in the middle of a life-saving surgery and not, you know, about to stick a sex toy up his teammate’s butt. </p><p>There’s a push and some pressure and Patrick can feel his body open to it, accept it. This is easy, he thinks, and then the pressure builds and it builds, and it’s as if he’s back in his own bed the night Jonny tried to fuck him, his big dick easing inside Patrick’s ass until it reached critical mass and then it was like Gandalf shouting at the Balrog in Lord of the Rings, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS.”</p><p>Perhaps they’ve reached the point of no return again and Patrick simply can’t open up any further than this. He whimpers at the thought, then fists his hands in Jonny’s sheets.</p><p>In the back recesses of his mind, Patrick can hear Jonny speaking to him gently, telling him he’s doing well. “You’re so good, Peeks.”</p><p>It’s enough to remind him to breathe even as the pressure builds one last time and then he feels the thickest part of the plug pop past his rim and inside, his body swallowing it up. His hole closes around the tapered base, the flat end resting outside of him, keeping it secure and in place.</p><p>He feels full, not uncomfortably so, but overwhelming still in its newness. He lets out a long breath and loosens his grip on the sheets, lets his legs go dead.</p><p>“Baby?” Jonny says. “You okay?”</p><p>Patrick feels wrung out from the force of holding himself still, of all his muscles wanting to tense while trying to keep them relaxed. He could almost definitely nap right now but for the aching stiffness of his dick begging for attention.</p><p>“I...think so. It’s. I don’t know. It’s different.”</p><p>Jonny sits up a little, still between Patrick’s legs but resting on his elbows now, and he keeps not so slyly glancing down at Patrick’s ass, probably at the plug. “Bad different or good different?”</p><p>Patrick wiggles around, trying to test it out. More fullness, but the longer he relaxes, the less strange it feels. “It’s not bad.”</p><p>He wonders if he shifted just so if maybe…</p><p>“It’ll get better the more you get used to it.”</p><p>“How’s that?” Patrick asks.</p><p>Jonny leans on one arm so his free hand can move back to the plug and press up and up and then-</p><p>“Oh, <i>fuck</i>,” Patrick gasps, hips jerking forward as he shudders. It’s touching right over his prostate every time Jonny angles it and taps it just so, an electric current shooting to all of his nerve endings and right through his dick.</p><p>“Like that,” Jonny says and Patrick doesn’t even have to look at him to know he’s smirking, he can hear it in the smugness of his deep voice.</p><p>Jonny stops pressing and immediately Patrick wants it back, wants more, feels greedy for it. He considers holding Jonny’s wrist close, making him continue, but he can’t, not if Jonny doesn’t want to. And yet the thought of stopping now is unbearable.</p><p>“Again,” he says, trying to ignore how desperate he sounds.</p><p>Jonny reaches over and brushes a clean thumb over his bottom lip, drags Patrick’s gaze away from the wall. “Say please.”</p><p>“Fuck you,” Patrick breathes, and watches a smile bloom over Jonny’s face. “Don’t tease me.</p><p>“I’m not teasing you,” Jonny says, trailing his hand from Patrick’s face down to his chest. The thumb that touched his lips glides over one nipple, then the other. “I like you like this. So much.”</p><p>“Like what?” Patrick asks, even if he’s pretty sure he’s not going to like the answer.</p><p>Jonny leans down and licks a long stripe from the base of Patrick’s cock to the crown. “Easy for me.”</p><p>God.</p><p>“<i>Please</i>,” Patrick moans, and grips at his own dick to begin stroking it furiously.</p><p>When Jonny doesn’t immediately move back in to touch Patrick he can hear himself whine, an embarrassingly high pitched noise that makes him want to curl up and hide under the bed, away from Jonny’s evil ass torture.</p><p>If he thought this was too much before, if he thought Jonny was too much before, it’s nothing compared to the throbbing need to come now. He wants Jonny’s hands on him, Jonny’s mouth, Jonny’s dick, all of it at once. And he can’t put it into words this close to the edge. A feather grazing across his balls could probably make him come this instant, that’s how close he is to falling apart.</p><p>“Let me,” Jonny says, drawing Patrick’s hand away from his dick. He leans in like he might take Patrick back into his mouth, but Patrick waves him off.</p><p>“No?” Jonny frowns.</p><p>“Me too,” Patrick explains, pointing at himself. </p><p>Jonny tilts his head to the side like a confused puppy at first, unsure what Patrick’s asking for, and Patrick’s horny brain is so hazy he’s not altogether positive he can currently articulate his thought beyond some sort of indecipherable hand gestures that indicate, ‘Your dick. My mouth? Yes. Good.’</p><p>Somehow Jonny figures out what he’s saying and gets himself laid out in the middle of the bed. He drags Patrick up onto his hands and knees and spins him around so they’re facing the opposite direction from each other and Patrick’s with it enough to take it from there. Not that it's hard to bend in and suck Jonny’s big cock down from this angle. It’s almost better this way than being on his knees or flat on his belly. From here he can angle Jonny up and lick him as he jacks him off.</p><p>As Jonny begins sucking him in turn Patrick loses the rhythm of it, almost stopping altogether when Jonny starts tapping the plug again. By that point, Patrick’s mostly just mouthing at Jonny as he fucks Jonny’s face and humps back against his hand. </p><p>Somewhere in the middle of it all they both come, and it’s a complete fucking mess - Patrick panting into Jonny’s thigh, spread out over Jonny’s body as Jonny hums and causally squeezes his ass, cups it, pets at it gently. It doesn’t make sense how Jonny can make this so good and Patrick so stupid, but he’s starting not to care. He just wants more.</p><p>*</p><p>Patrick doesn’t travel with the team to Colorado for the second to last game of the season. Q says he wants him and Jonny, Duncs, Seabs, and Buff to rest up for the beginning of the playoffs. Sharpy is sent with Bur and a handful of AHLers in their place, pissing and moaning the entire time about how he deserves some rest too.</p><p>“I’m just as vital as all of you fucks!” Sharpy says, before leaving practice that day.</p><p>He scores two goals the next night and the Hawks win, but he doesn’t look particularly happy about it and Patrick can’t help but laugh his ass off when Sharpy returns and refuses to give any of them the time of day during the following team meeting.</p><p>“He’s such a fucking baby,” Jonny gripes later. “It’s just two games.”</p><p>“Give him a break,” Patrick says as they’re walking out to the parking lot. “The extra traveling sucks, you know that.”</p><p>“He doesn’t have to travel tonight.”</p><p>“Yeah, but to Colorado.”</p><p>The distinction doesn’t seem to matter to Jonny, even if Patrick knows deep in his bones Jonny would also be pissy in Sharpy’s place. Jonny loves hockey, but the travel wears on him more than most.</p><p>“One time. One trip. Big deal,” Jonny rolls his eyes. “Like I said, he’s a fucking whiner.”</p><p>Patrick watches Jonny’s face closely for a minute, the way his irritation gives into something angrier, Jonny’s mouth tightening and his jaw flexing.</p><p>“Are you still mad about last week?”</p><p>Jonny’s answer is immediate. “No.”</p><p>The previous Thursday, when Patrick was already seated on the bus, ready to head out to the last Dallas game of the season and wondering where the hell Jonny was, as he wasn’t usually this behind, he heard several loud, muttered curses and then the door was opening as Jonny rushed onto the bus. He stomped in a straight line to the back, near where Patrick was seated, death in his eyes and his dress shoes making a hilariously wet squishy sound with every step he took.</p><p>Half the boys weren’t paying attention, too busy checking their phones or listening to music, but of those that were the laughter wasn’t quiet or subtle and only fueled Jonny’s rage if the veins popping on his forehead and the redness crawling up his neck were any indication.</p><p>Patrick hadn’t asked what happened; he could put the pieces together by Sharpy’s poorly disguised howling, and the knowledge that Sharpy only had about five pranks up his sleeves he regularly cycled through, one of those being the classic “empty garbage can full of water tipped against the closed hotel room door to soak your feet when opened” prank. And that night Jonny was the victim.</p><p>He knew why Sharpy had done it, too. </p><p>
  <i>Captain Serious.</i>
</p><p>Jonny is more than some stupid nickname, he isn’t a robot, and he can occasionally, rarely, every now and then, be funny. Patrick will attest to a few chuckles. Maybe.</p><p>But it’s not as if the moniker came from nowhere. Jonny can be controlling at times, bossy to the point of exhaustion, and domineering. If he gets in one of his Dad-knows-best attitudes and starts ordering everyone around, he’s almost impossible to deal with if you try to go against him. Patrick doesn’t; even when Jonny’s driving him up a wall, he doesn’t. It’s easier to just go with the flow, better to let Jonny call the shots until he’s worked himself out of whatever mood has him all riled up.</p><p>Sharpy doesn’t subscribe to Patrick’s philosophy. Even when Seabs pushes back, and he’s one of the few guys on the team brave enough to go up against Jonny when he’s in Bulldozer Mode, he doesn’t push the way Sharpy pushes, and prods, and picks, and picks, and picks until Jonny blows a gasket. </p><p>In the days leading up to the wet shoe incident, Jonny had been railroading everyone about not fucking around during practice, about preparing themselves mentally and physically for the playoffs, about taking it seriously because the team has a real shot this year. Patrick doesn’t disagree, but hovering over the guys and ordering them around only goes so far, and perhaps Jonny needs to learn that in his own way. Sharpy certainly thought it was about time to take him down a peg or two.</p><p>Now they were both pissy and in horrible moods. For different reasons, but that ultimately didn’t make Patrick’s life any fucking easier dealing with them, separately or together.</p><p>“You are,” Patrick says. He can tell Jonny’s mad by how tightly he’s holding his shoulders alone, not even counting how Jonny can barely, if ever mask his anger.</p><p>Jonny’s jaw tightens. “No.”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Jonny stops about twenty feet from his car and turns, looking down at Patrick. “Kaner, let it go.”</p><p>He stares for a long, piercing beat and then he’s walking again.</p><p>Patrick has to double his stride to catch up and he snags the front of Jonny’s shirt to stop him just as they reach the driver’s side of Jonny’s BMW.</p><p>“Hey,” he says softly, holding on loosely to Jonny’s plain v-neck white T-shirt.</p><p>If he leaves mad, Patrick knows he’ll show up mad tomorrow. And he doesn’t - doesn’t want this to continue.</p><p>“What?” Jonny says. He looks tired all of a sudden, weighed down, the skin around his eyes puffy. Has he not been sleeping well?</p><p>Patrick lets go of Jonny’s shirt only to grab it again from the bottom, tugging at the hem until Jonny steps closer.</p><p>“You wanna come over?” he asks, low. “To my place?”</p><p>The lines on Jonny’s forehead start to smooth out, the downward curve of his mouth lifting. He tilts his head, searching. “For?”</p><p>Patrick glances away, bites at his bottom lip.</p><p>“I was thinking of, you know. Trying it out again,” he says. And when Jonny continues to just look at him, waiting, Patrick swallows the lump in his throat. “The, um. The plug.”</p><p>He looks side to side, checking to see if anyone else is in the parking lot or nearby, if anyone could’ve heard him, but no, they’re surprisingly alone, if just for the time being.</p><p>“So you liked it?” Jonny asks. It sounds like he’s smiling. Patrick can’t be sure because he can’t make himself meet Jonny’s eyes.</p><p>“I, yeah. I did. I put it in on my own the other night, when we had the day off. Left it in for about ten minutes until I couldn’t stand it anymore.”</p><p>Jonny inches in closer, enough to back Patrick up against his car door. He cups the side of Patrick’s wrist as Patrick continues to hold his shirt. “It started to hurt?”</p><p>Patrick shakes his head, his chin almost to his chest. “No, no. It felt really fucking good,” he explains. He pauses, swallows again, twists Jonny’s shirt around his fingers. “I had to jack off. Got jizz all over my kitchen floor.”</p><p>“You masturbated in your kitchen?”</p><p>Patrick can feel the tips of his ears burn. He tries to step back but he can’t; Jonny’s still got a hold of his wrist. “I was trying to make dinner and I couldn’t concentrate, okay! Don’t you fucking judge me.”</p><p>“I’m not! I’m not.” Jonny says, and exhales like he’s been holding onto that breath for too long. “That’s. So fucking hot, Peeks.”</p><p>His hand slides up Patrick’s bare forearm, a thumb pressing into Patrick’s pulse point at the inside of his elbow.</p><p>Patrick flicks his eyes up quickly, catches Jonny’s dark, dark gaze on him, zeroed in on his mouth, of all places. “So, you wanna come over?”</p><p>“Yes,” he says immediately, without thought, and then drops Patrick’s arm. “But I can’t. I have a Bauer photoshoot I have to be at in about 30 minutes.”</p><p>Patrick lets Jonny’s shirt slip from his own grasp. “Okay.”</p><p>He’s not disappointed. That would be stupid.</p><p>“What about later?” Jonny asks, the hint of a smile edging at the corner of his lips. “We could get dinner and then after…”</p><p>“After. Yeah. Definitely,” Patrick says, and he smiles too.</p><p>*</p><p>The first week of the Predators series is in Chicago and the Hawks come away with one loss and one win. The second is more of the same. Game three is a loss, but they feel confident about game four and have a solid practice the day after. The waiting around in between games is the most annoying part. Can’t go home, but have nothing to do sitting around in a hotel room all day. </p><p>Brouwer and Soupy set up a Mario Kart competition in one of the hotel conference rooms and they spend most of the afternoon creating a system of teams and how many wins equal how many points and what amount of points ensure your team moves onto the next round.</p><p>As evening rolls in, guys begin to disperse, as they make plans for dinner. Sharpy and Bur catch Patrick in the elevator while he's heading up to his room. He's thinking about the plug he hid in his luggage and what Jonny might do if Patrick accidentally left it out on the nightstand. If he might do what he did the week before - finger Patrick open within an inch of his life while jacking him, and, after he's come, lick him clean, slowly pushing the plug inside, and then let Patrick blow him as long as Jonny wants while Patrick clenches down on the plug and comes again.</p><p>He gets so lost in the daydream of it that he startles when Bur knocks an arm into his side and says, “We’re going to this club called Mai later. You coming?”</p><p>Patrick blinks, trying to process what was just said.</p><p>“Uh, sure.”</p><p>“Sure?” Sharpy asks, eyeing him.</p><p>He’s been doing that more often lately, watching Patrick skeptically, like he’s trying to work something out. Patrick doesn’t like it, and he sure as fuck doesn’t want whatever conclusion Sharpy might be forming to solidify.</p><p>He brightens, forcing an enthusiastic smile. “I mean yeah! Definitely.”</p><p>“Sweet,” Bur says.</p><p>“Be ready to go by nine,” Sharpy says.</p><p>*</p><p>At the club, Patrick and Jonny sit at a table with Steeger and Duncs, sipping at beers instead of pounding them. Patrick's preoccupied with the thought of getting back to the hotel, of Jonny finding the plug he left out, of what might happen after. It’s a welcome distraction from worrying about hockey or even trying to hook up like most of the other guys are doing.</p><p>This thing with him and Jonny isn’t stopping him from meeting girls or getting his dick wet. Jonny certainly hasn’t made any claims to the contrary. They’re both free to do whatever they want, whenever they want.</p><p>It’s just. </p><p>Why would Patrick bother trying to woo some stranger for one night, work at getting someone to fall for him for one night, when Jonny’s right there and he already knows how to touch Patrick - how to make him fall apart in less than ten minutes. Okay, five minutes.</p><p>Okay, okay, two minutes.</p><p>Fuck, that’s embarassing.</p><p>Patrick polishes off the rest of his beer and is considering ordering another, just to pass the time, when Steeger announces he’s going to piss, a minute after Duncs has wandered off to do God knows what, leaving them mostly alone at the table.</p><p>Jonny leans in close, not enough to be obvious, but enough his arm is pressed up against Patrick’s as he pulls out his phone and begins scrolling.</p><p>“Wanna get out of here? Go back to the room?” he asks. At first Patrick isn’t absolutely sure Jonny’s talking to him, even if it feels dumb to assume he’d be talking to the no one else around them. His downcast eyes flicker up and catch on Patrick, holding him there. Patrick’s stomach flips.</p><p>“Yeah. Yes,” he says, too quickly. He grabs at his empty Coors Light bottle. There’s still some perspiration at the bottom from where the liquid was cold, and the wetness slips over his fingertips. He wishes he had another beer to drink. “I mean, okay. Whatever.”</p><p>Jonny grins and stands, his chair skidding along the tile floor as it’s pushed back. “I’ll call a cab. Meet me out front in five minutes.”</p><p>Patrick nods. He doesn’t watch Jonny weave his way through the crowd, taller than most everyone around him, and big enough most people step aside to let him by. He doesn’t watch him disappear around a corner of the empty space he left in his path, as the crowd reforms around it. Instead he pulls out his phone and checks the time, counts as three minutes pass, then four.</p><p>He’s already up and out of his seat before the five-minute mark hits. People don’t move for him like they did for Jonny and it takes some work to maneuver through all of them.</p><p>He runs into Sharpy when he’s about ten feet from the front door.</p><p>“Where are you going?” Sharpy asks. He’s got a fresh mixed drink in one hand.</p><p>Patrick shoves his phone in his pocket. “Back to the hotel.”</p><p>Sharpy makes a disgusted face. “It’s not even midnight.”</p><p>It’s difficult not to feel guilty with Sharpy’s judgmental stare burning into Patrick’s skull. He shrugs nonchalantly, like it’s no big deal and says, “Just kinda tired. I’ll see you at morning skate, okay?”</p><p>“Mmm,” Sharpy hums, eyes narrowing.</p><p>Patrick’s half-expecting him to bitch more, to hand out more grief until Patrick relents and decides to stay, and honestly if Sharpy did push, if he really wanted to press the issue, Patrick would fold. Not because he wants to stay and get slightly buzzed on mediocre beer or even dance to halfway decent music. No, it’s that he can’t think of a good excuse for why it’s so important he go to bed early, and saying he’s tired is really fucking lame in terms of viable excuses.</p><p>Luckily Sharpy gives him one long, last look and turns, letting Patrick go.</p><p>Jonny’s waiting by the curb when Patrick joins him outside. Patrick has the weirdest urge to go and lean against him, burrow into his side. He shoves his hands in his pants pockets instead. </p><p>“So I was thinking about when we get back to the room,” Jonny says after thirty seconds of silence go by.</p><p>“Me too.”</p><p>“What were you thinking about?”</p><p>Patrick ducks his head down. “About going to bed.”</p><p>“Bed, eh?” Jonny asks, almost coy. “That’s all?”</p><p>“I don’t know. Maybe. What were you thinking about?”</p><p>Jonny shifts back a step, sways forward a little, just enough his chest brushes up against the back of Patrick’s shoulder, hovering close. “I brought one of the plugs with me, the next size up. Thought we could see if you’re ready to try it out yet?”</p><p>Every single one of the hairs on Patrick’s arms rise, goosebumps all over. He sucks in a quick breath as the cab pulls up.</p><p>“I’m ready,” he says.</p><p>When they get back to their room and shed their clothes, Jonny pulls Patrick onto his bed and then onto his lap. He takes his time smearing the lube over Patrick’s hole, pressing it in and in, circling his rim, massaging it. </p><p>“Jon,” Patrick says, trying to form a coherent thought around the fuzzy buzzed want spinning in his head. “C’mon.”</p><p>“Tell me what you want, Peeks,” Jonny whispers, two fingers deep inside Patrick and leaning in to lick a stripe up Patrick’s neck.</p><p>“The plug. Get the - get the plug, please,” he moans.</p><p>Jonny’s big cock is fully hard and resting on his belly, at the perfect angle for Patrick to grind his own dick against as they leak all over each other. All of the lights in the room are off, everything dark except for the blue sheen of the moon coming through where the window curtains are parted. It gives Patrick the courage to say, “Do you think about it? Putting your cock in me?”</p><p>Jonny shivers and presses his forehead to Patrick’s collarbone, sucks at the skin there as his hips thrust up, gliding their dicks together in a delicious slide.</p><p>“I think about it all the time,” he says, and his free hand squeezes at Patrick’s hip like he’s trying to hold him there, like he thinks Patrick might move away. “All the time, baby.”</p><p>Patrick wraps his arms around Jonny’s neck and undulates his hips, jumps against Jonny as he tries to bite back the cries desperately pushing their way up from his chest and throat to his mouth. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s loose-limbed from the alcohol or because he had the other plug in yesterday, but plug number two eases inside him without the resistance he was expecting, and then it’s just more fullness, more pressure, more sensation, more need.</p><p>When Jonny wraps a large, warm hand around both of them, Patrick can’t remember who comes first or how long they stay pressed into each other after. But they do win the game the next night, and the series.</p><p>*</p><p>The second loss to Vancouver is rough. They're a better team than Nashville, quicker on the puck and tougher against the boards, difficult to move past to get to the net. The Hawks were within reach of closing out the series tonight, game five, and they couldn’t finish. Down by three before Jonny scored their only goal of the night and, by that point, it was far too late.</p><p>Everyone is frustrated as they come off the ice, but no one more so than Jonny, who stomps into the locker room and throws his helmet, cracking the eye shield the second it slams into the wall and falls to the ground. One of the equipment guys, Jared, flinches, and voices that were talking turn hushed as Jonny moves like a bull around the room, whipping off his gear and cursing like he thinks being free of it will solve his problems.</p><p>Q walks in and keeps his speech short. He’s as pissed as the rest of the team, grim-faced and throwing out a few platitudes about keeping their heads up, letting go of the loss, being ready to move on to the next game by tomorrow. It’s noticeably less quiet after he leaves. Patrick sits in his stall for a while and tries to not watch Jonny. </p><p>“Calm the fuck down,” Seabs says three minutes later as Jonny’s kicking off his skates.</p><p>“I am calm,” Jonny says, but he’s staring at the floor like he wants to burn holes into it.</p><p>Seabs bends at the knees, cocks his head trying to get a better look at Jonny’s face. He squeezes at Jonny’s bare shoulder. “Are you?”</p><p>Jonny’s jaw flexes. “<i>Yes</i>.”</p><p>There’s a moment, then two where Seabs doesn’t move, where he’s assessing like a parent would, checking to make sure it’s okay to walk away. “Good.”</p><p>He squeezes Jonny’s shoulder once more as he steps back.</p><p>“Get out of my face,” Jonny huffs, forcing out a laugh and shrugging him off.</p><p>As Seabs turns his back to them, Patrick watches the way his face immediately closes off again, shutting down and tightening, like stretched skin over bone.</p><p>Patrick wants to reach out and clasp Jonny’s forearm, reassure him in some small way, but he’s not certain Jonny would want it, that’d he’d accept it in the middle of his fury. And there are so many eyes watching, that would see.</p><p>
  <i>Don’t be that guy.</i>
</p><p>He can’t be that guy. </p><p>So he showers and changes, rides the bus to the airport, rides the plane back to Chicago, and then rides another bus to the hotel in the Loop where the team is staying during the playoffs to help keep everyone focused.</p><p>Patrick had hoped, after the four hour flight and all the driving, that Jonny would’ve had time to chill out. He sat on his own on the plane and never once took his earbuds out of his ears, eyes closed like he was drifting. But as soon as he’s off the bus at the Hilton hotel, he’s stomping away from the group and up toward their room.</p><p>With a sigh, Patrick follows behind him, watching Jonny throw his bag on the floor at the foot of his bed when they step through the door.</p><p>It’d probably be best to leave Jonny alone, let him sleep it off and hope he’s worked it out of his system by morning. The clock on the nightstand between their beds reads 2:49 AM. They’re both exhausted. <i>Nothing good happens at three in the morning</i>, his mom likes to say. </p><p>Patrick sets his own bag down more gingerly at the foot of his bed and unzips it, proceeding to take out all the things he’ll need before going to sleep. He goes through the motions mindlessly for a while, the room too quiet.</p><p>“Jon?” he murmurs when he can’t help himself any longer.</p><p>“What?” Jonny says, clipped. He’s busy yanking clothing items from his luggage, his head bent down, but his mouth is still a thin line.</p><p>“It’s one game,” Patrick says, trying for even.</p><p>Jonny’s eyes snap up to his, his brow creasing as the anger floods back in.</p><p>It was the wrong thing to say.</p><p>“It hasn’t been one game. It’s been every fucking game. I’m about to drive my skate over his fucking piece of horseshit fucking face.”</p><p>Jonny pulls a tennis shoe from the bag and throws it onto the ground hard enough it bounces back up again. His cheeks are reddening and his hands are balled up into fists, and Patrick just wants him to take one deep breath.</p><p>“Kesler wins every time you let him follow you out of the rink,” he says.</p><p>They’d butted heads every single shift they’d been on the ice together tonight. Kesler had unrelentingly harassed Jonny, cross-checking him when the refs weren’t looking, tripping him, pushing him, slamming him into the boards. Jonny barely had breathing room to pass the puck, let alone make space enough to create chances for goals. The fact that he’d still managed to score the only goal of the night should’ve given him at least a sliver of peace in between the rage. It didn’t.</p><p>It only seemed to make the situation inside the swirling mess of Jonny’s mind even worse.</p><p>Patrick sighs. He wants Jonny to see that holding onto all of it, the loss, the frustration, the helplessness and the anger is only hurting him instead of helping him. He’s not sure he has the ability to explain it, or that Jonny will even listen.</p><p>And his answer is made abundantly, strikingly clear as Jonny looks not at him, but through him and spits, “Like you’d know how it feels to be constantly hounded. You’re too busy hanging back waiting for the puck to be handed to you.”</p><p>The room feels like it’s been emptied of all oxygen, and it’s hard to breathe. It’s as if the wind was knocked out of Patrick.</p><p>“Are you fucking serious?” he manages to grit out between his teeth. “Yeah, because no one ever - you know what? Forget it.”</p><p>Jonny shrugs. “I’m just sayin’.”</p><p>“And I’m just sayin’ you need to get over yourself.”</p><p>“Thanks for the advice,” Jonny says, sarcastic and mean, his expression dark, bitter. “Real helpful.”</p><p>“You’re welcome, jackass,” Patrick says, spins on his heel and walks out.</p><p>He makes it to the elevator before he realizes where the fuck he’s going or what he’s doing, so full up with the need to scream he can’t think. He rides down to the lobby and then stops, glancing around. It’s almost empty at this hour, everything is shut down and everyone is mostly asleep. There’s nowhere to go and nothing to do, but he needs a moment alone to breathe. It still feels like Jonny just kicked him in the chest.</p><p>One of the clerks manning the front desk asks if he wants anything and Patrick waves him off, shuffling over to one of the couches in the lobby and taking a seat. He stares blankly out of the glass windows of the building for several minutes as he tries to figure out how what he said went so wrong, how the team fucked up so badly tonight, how Jonny might have the biggest dick he’s ever seen, but he’s also the biggest dickhead Patrick’s ever known too.</p><p>His phone vibrates in his pocket and he considers not checking it, content for the moment to just zone out on this randomly cushy leather couch. Eventually the curiosity becomes too difficult to ignore and he pulls it out to see it’s a message from the one and only: King Big Dick.</p><p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Come back.</i>
</p><p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> No.</i>
</p><p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Please?</i>
</p><p>There’s a part of Patrick that wants to tell Jonny to go fuck himself, maybe with his huge dick, but he knows deep down, in his core, where he’s still feeling raw from Jonny’s words, it’d only be a temporary satisfaction. Jonny’s upset, he’s upset, this whole night is a fucking trash bag full of ballsacks.</p><p>And ultimately he wants this night over and done with. It’s easier to get himself up, into the elevator and back through the door of their hotel room with that thought in mind. Jonny’s sitting on his bed when Patrick walks in, forearms resting on his thighs, head bowed. </p><p>Patrick takes off his shoes and pants, folds his shirt neatly over a chair and is about to slip on his pajamas when he hears Jonny stand and pad up behind him.</p><p>“You left your plug out,” Jonny says, hovering over Patrick’s shoulder.</p><p>Patrick flicks his eyes over to the nightstand where he leaves his water bottle, his phone charger, and his lip balm. Next to his small collection of objects is his number two plug. He doesn’t remember even pulling it out of his bag.</p><p>“Did you leave it out for me?” Jonny asks, his warm breath fluttering over the back of Patrick’s neck. He closes his eyes and bites his lip.</p><p>“No,” Patrick lies.</p><p>“Then you should put it away. Or anyone could find it.”</p><p>Jonny doesn’t sound as mad as he was earlier, but he’s no less rigid and restrained, if the sound of his voice is anything to go by. </p><p>Patrick exhales slowly.</p><p>There’s something near relief pulsing at the edge of him, causing his tense muscles to loosen even as frustration surges up. Fuck Jonny for his shitty assumptions and his overblown temper. Fuck him for throwing it at Patrick when all he was trying to do was help. He wants to tell Jonny about all of the times he was shoved around for being too good and too small, threatened for having a pretty mouth or big eyes, treated like shit because he didn’t have a loud voice, pushed around because he wasn’t big.</p><p>A sob wells up in his throat and he chokes it down, down, down until it’s buried where he always keeps it. </p><p>Instead what comes out in a low whisper is, “Make me.”</p><p>Jonny steps closer, presses his chest to Patrick’s back.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“If you want me to put it away, make me.”</p><p>Patrick’s not sure what he’s pushing for, what he even wants or what he’s trying to gain. But Jonny’s right here, so close to touching him, and Patrick can feel the anger still coiled up around them both, pulled taut like a string and ready to break.</p><p>If it’s going to snap Patrick wants it to happen with Jonny’s hands on his body and not with words cutting him open.</p><p>“You don’t want that,” Jonny breathes and it’s dangerously close to a growl.</p><p>Patrick leans back, lets his ass rub against Jonny’s crotch. “Don’t tell me what I want, Jon.”</p><p>Silence hangs between them thick and heavy for a long beat.</p><p>And then -</p><p>“Fine. Step forward. Hands on the wall.”</p><p>Patrick shifts two, maybe three, steps away from where they’re standing now and does as he’s told, palms flat and fingers spread against the white wall.</p><p>“Now what?” he asks, and he doesn’t turn his head. He can’t.</p><p>His heart is racing like he ran five miles, like he was just chased, but he’s not scared.</p><p>Jonny’s hands fit around his rib cage and slide down, slow, slower as they reach his waist and pull his boxers free, pushing them down to his feet. “Hold still,” Jonny orders. “Arch your back. Yeah, like that. Good. Don’t move.”</p><p>“Or what?”</p><p>“Or I won’t touch you. Do you want me to touch you?”</p><p>Patrick shudders, squeezing his eyes shut. If he were stronger he’d put his clothes back on and leave. If he were stronger he wouldn’t be in this position in the first place. Yet he is, and he can’t move because Jonny told him not to, and he can’t breathe with how badly he wants Jonny’s hands on him.</p><p>“Yes,” he says, barely able to speak.</p><p>“How much?” Jonny asks.</p><p>His lips touch the nape of Patrick’s neck as he moves those few inches closer, his bare cock caressing the crease of Patrick’s ass. Trying not to tremble, Patrick focuses on being bent forward, Jonny molding himself against Patrick and wrapping his arms around Patrick’s torso.</p><p>“Jonny,” Patrick whines and is rewarded with Jonny’s teeth scraping over his shoulder, Jonny’s dick pressing and pressing until it’s nudged up inside his crease, rubbing over his hole.</p><p>Jonny rocks against Patrick. There’s a rhythm to how he moves, up and down and in, up and down and in, the head of his cock catching on Patrick’s rim with every third pass. His breathing heavy and hot on Patrick’s skin and Patrick’s aching to fist his own dick, to get even a modicum of friction going. He could probably come this second if Jonny breathed on him the right way. </p><p>“Tell me,” Jonny commands, sucking a kiss into the bend of Patrick’s neck.</p><p>Patrick can feel himself leaking onto the hotel carpet. There’s a wet patch in between his feet, it’d be a puddle if the floor was made of tile.</p><p>“I - fuck,” Patrick moans, bites his lip again. “I want it.”</p><p>“How much?”</p><p>“I can’t think,” Patrick cries. He might be shaking.</p><p>“Then don’t think. Just tell me,” Jonny says, and fucks himself harder against Patrick’s body, holds Patrick up so he won’t crumple.</p><p>It’s hard to form words. Patrick wants to swallow them, hold onto them, keep them inside his chest. </p><p>“I can’t come if you don’t touch me and I need you to touch me. I need your hands on me, and your cock in me, and I need you, you asshole. You know I do. Fuck. <i>Please</i>.”</p><p>Instantly Jonny’s big hand is there, warm and perfect on Patrick’s dick, stripping him so fast Patrick’s eyes roll back in his head as he comes, knees going out. Jonny catches him, holds him up and moves him to his bed, gets him spread out on his belly. Patrick’s made of jelly and air and he can barely move as Jonny presses back over him and rubs off against his ass until he spurts in stripes over Patrick’s hole and up his back. </p><p>He must fall asleep for minutes at a time because he doesn’t remember Jonny cleaning him up or pulling the bedding down so Patrick can get underneath.</p><p>“My plug,” Patrick mutters after he’s drunk half a bottle of water and Jonny’s in bed beside him.</p><p>“You want it?” Jonny asks. The lines of his face are softer now, the darkness in his eyes lighter.</p><p>Patrick rubs his face over Jonny’s neck and collarbone. “Yes.”</p><p>The slight, crooked smile that curls at the edge of Jonny’s lips is the best thing he’s seen all night, and he doesn’t even mind when Jonny fingers another slow, languid orgasm out of him, making him keen and almost jerk up off the bed. He fits the plug inside after, hands massaging at Patrick’s ass and thighs like he’s all worked up again.</p><p>He’s absolutely hard. Patrick reaches for him, wanting to repay the favor, but Jonny shakes his head.</p><p>“We should sleep.”</p><p>“Tomorrow,” Patrick promises, already half dozing.</p><p>They have to be up in five hours for breakfast, team meetings, and then a 10 o’clock practice. Patrick’s already dreading Morning Jonny more than Angry Jonny. He’ll definitely have to suck him off into a better mood in the afternoon.</p><p>“Tomorrow,” Jonny echoes. “And maybe we can see about getting you to come untouched.”</p><p>The thought fizzes up through Patrick’s brain and tries to take latch on, but he’s too sex dumb and exhausted to let that really permeate.</p><p>Jonny scoots down the bed until his head is resting on a pillow, Patrick opens his arms and lets Jonny curl into them. It’s a little awkward, holding Jonny in this position as big as he is, pressing into Patrick with all of his weight and strength, almost covering him entirely. But it’s good too, it’s - Patrick sinks into it sweetly, sleep so close now and seconds from dragging him under.</p><p>“Patrick, I’m…” Jonny says, like he’s getting ready to explain, mouth brushing over Patrick’s hair. “I’m…sorry.”</p><p>“I know,” Patrick tells him, because he does, he gets it.</p><p>Jonny isn’t like the others. When it comes to how he treats Patrick, he isn’t like anyone else at all.</p><p>*</p><p>As they’re walking down to breakfast the next day, Buff runs into them and says, “Did you hear?”</p><p>“Hear what?” Patrick asks since Jonny is, predictably, barely awake enough to keep his eyes open, let alone speak.</p><p>“About Detroit. They’re out.”</p><p>“Fuck yes!” Patrick shouts, loud in the silent hallway. “YES!”</p><p>“This is our year, boys,” Steeger says, popping up from out of nowhere.</p><p>Jonny’s sleepy grin broadens.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2010</b>
</p><p>As a reward for sweeping the Sharks the team decides to go out to dinner together on their off night to Gene &amp; Georgetti. Patrick hasn’t had pasta in over two months and he’s jonesing for a big, fat slice of lasagna, possibly some wine, and if he can get away with it, a breadstick or two.</p><p>He almost wants the breadstick more than he wants Jonny’s cock. </p><p>Almost.</p><p>The thought makes heat simmer low in his belly. After dinner Jonny promised to eat him out before trying the number four plug. Patrick had told him he’d gotten the number three plug to go in so easily after using the second one for two weeks that he was ready for more of an actual challenge. Who has time for these little bitch plugs when there are bigger dicks to fry? Not Patrick! And the truth is Jonny’s tongue is as long as the plugs if not as wide and it feels slippery slick every time Jonny pushes it inside him, just another method for working his hole open, really. A better method. If he could keep Jonny’s tongue there all the time he might not get anything done, and he might not care. </p><p>His jeans are tightening from just daydreaming about it. He needs to get a handle on himself.</p><p>Rubbing one out before dinner is under consideration, just to ease the urge pressing at him, but he doesn’t get the chance. His phone vibrates with a text alerting him Jonny’s outside in his car and waiting for Patrick to come down. He’d offered to drive them to the restaurant earlier and Patrick suspects that was partly due to Jonny wanting to go back to his place after instead of Patrick’s so he could fall asleep in his own bed. It’s a pretty nice bed to be honest, Patrick can’t complain, and when he stays with Jonny he usually gets sex in the mornings too. Could be worse.</p><p>When he slides into the passenger seat of Jonny’s fancy new black Prius, Jonny’s already got the speakers cranked up to high, Paint It Black by The Rolling Stones playing on the radio. The same song Jonny’s played in the locker room before every game, after every win, and during every post-practice cool down.</p><p>To say Patrick’s a little bit sick of it at this point would be a massive fucking understatement.</p><p>“Are you for real?” he sighs. “Again?”</p><p>Jonny grins. “It’s good luck. Gotta listen to it once a day.”</p><p>“Except you really don’t ‘gotta’,” Patrick shoots back.</p><p>Jonny checks to see if Patrick’s all buckled in and then takes off down Wabash Avenue. “Gotta.”</p><p>“Sounds dangerously close to what we call a superstition, Tazer.”</p><p>He knows Jonny hates being associated with anything one might consider illogical or based on emotion rather than facts, even if sometimes he’s a gigantic ball of fury with neither logic nor rationale. Patrick can tell the suggestion of it is making Jonny’s right eye want to twitch as he suppresses the urge to let it get under his skin.</p><p>Jonny turns up the volume a little more. “I’m not superstitious.”</p><p>“So you keep saying,” Patrick grumbles.</p><p>Jonny laughs. He’s in a fitted light blue V-neck T-shirt, black shorts, and a reversed gray snapback. He looks - well. Patrick’s pants tighten further. It’s becoming a bit of a problem. Rolling down his window, he lets the cool Chicago night air hit his warm cheeks as a nice reprieve.</p><p>“Don’t sound so put out. It’s catchy.”</p><p>“I’ve heard it so much I’m starting to hear it in my dreams,” Patrick says.</p><p>“Well, guess what?” Jonny says.</p><p>Patrick knows this is a trap, but he goes along with it anyway, he can’t help himself. “What?”</p><p>Jonny turns up his shit-eating grin as he spins the volume up a fraction more.</p><p>*</p><p>Dinner is loud and enjoyable, full of boasting, bragging, and really good food. It’s hard to get more than two or three guys to ever stop talking at one time; usually it’s Steeger and Sharpy, occasionally it’s Seabs telling one of his jokes, or Bolly talking about whatever the hell Bolly usually goes on about. There’s multiple conversations going on at once from one group discussing the Sharks series highlights, to another discussing how badly Detroit bit the dust in round two and how great it’ll be not to have to go up against them this year, to a third discussing what the plans are for after they finish eating.</p><p>Patrick gets so caught up in watching Duncs chomp on an entire breadstick without any of his front teeth he almost doesn’t hear Sharpy trying to get his attention from across the table.</p><p>“Huh?” Patrick asks after he’s been elbowed by Laddy.</p><p>“You’re coming out with us to The Pony, right?” Sharpy says.</p><p>He’s already giving Patrick those eyes, the suspicious eyes, the drilling-holes-into-Patrick’s-skull eyes. They make Patrick start to sweat, his palms a little clammy.</p><p>“Uh, maybe,” he says, shrugging. “We’ll see.”</p><p>It’s the most bullshit answer, and he can tell immediately Sharpy is willing to let it go, but only for now.</p><p>After the bill gets pawned off on one of the vets everyone begins to disperse from the table, leaving in twos and threes as they head for the parking garage across the street. Patrick goes to take a quick piss and then comes out to the lobby to search for Jonny. </p><p>A warm hand presses against the small of his back.</p><p>It doesn’t startle him, and he thinks about how maybe it should, maybe they’re getting too comfortable in public. Maybe he should pull away.</p><p>He doesn’t pull away.</p><p>“My place,” Jonny says, as they exit the front of the restaurant.</p><p>“Is that a request or a directive?” Patrick asks. “Because I’m pretty sure you already made up your mind, like, three hours ago.”</p><p>Jonny’s hand moves up Patrick’s spine and his skin tingles, temporarily distracting him. Were they going left or right? Where’s the car again? What was he asking?</p><p>“Well we ca-“ Jonny starts and is cut off by Sharpy walking up beside them.</p><p>“You guys coming?”</p><p>Jonny arches an eyebrow. “Where?”</p><p>“The Pony Inn. Didn’t Kaner tell you? We’re heading over there now.”</p><p>Patrick shifts away from Jonny’s hand, moves to run a few fingers through the sides of his hair and remembers it’s gone, buzzed off for his playoff mullet. He scratches behind his ear, avoiding Sharpy’s searching stare.</p><p>“I was going to tell him when we got to the car.”</p><p>Sharpy’s mouth is a slanted line of doubt. “Were you?”</p><p>“Yes? What the hell?” Patrick throws his arms up dramatically, drawing out the consonants in his words to add emphasis to his incredulity. </p><p>Sharpy blinks, like he’s uncertain, and Patrick is about to congratulate himself for another successful deflection when something solidifies in Sharpy’s expression and he straightens, arm crossing over his chest.</p><p>“That still doesn’t answer the question. Are you guys coming or bitching out again?”</p><p>“We were - I was there last time. In Nashville,” Patrick explains, stuttering on his answer. The hesitation is blood in the water, a slab of raw steak on an occupied plate asking to be pounced on by a hungry animal.</p><p>Patrick can already tell Sharpy’s calculating, trying to stitch together bits of information floating around in his brain. “But you left early. Actually, you both did. And now you’re leaving together, again.”</p><p>Oh shit. Fuck shit. Fuck fuck <i>fuck.</i></p><p>It’s happening.</p><p>Patrick can’t think, his head is alarmingly empty, every thought instantly gone.</p><p>“I, um,” he says, trying to form a coherent sentence. “Uh.”</p><p>Nothing.</p><p>Nothing…</p><p>Nothing…….</p><p>“What’s your point, Sharpy?” Jonny says, jumping into the conversation, finally, his arm bumping against Patrick’s.</p><p>The desire to step back and hide behind Jonny, let him deal with this while Patrick tries to breathe and retrieve his cognitive skills, is overwhelming. </p><p>They’re standing just outside of the parking garage, the street darkened where they’re gathered and the foot traffic slow at this hour. Despite that they’re still outside, and no one is close by, but people are around, and if Sharpy’s about to unleash whatever facts he’s privy to Patrick would really like it to not be on a random street in River North.</p><p>Sharpy’s visibly irritated when he faces off against Jonny. “You think you’re too good for the rest of us now? Kane and Toews about to bring the cup back to Chicago? Don’t need the rest of us losers, eh?”</p><p>“Toews and Kane,” Jonny says, the sarcastic shithead.</p><p>Patrick can’t help the offended face he makes and Sharpy barks out a laugh. “Blow me, Toes.”</p><p>The warmth beside Patrick disappears and he watches as Jonny pulls Sharpy into a one-armed hug, Sharpy briefly resisting until he goes slack, pretending to still be annoyed as Jonny fucks with his hair.</p><p>“Sure, man. Whenever you want. I’ll make it real sloppy,” Jonny says as Sharpy gags and tries to yank his body away. Jonny holds him tight, tone shifting, becoming serious. “You know you’re integral to the team. We couldn’t do any of this shit without you.”</p><p>“Damn right,” Sharpy agrees.</p><p>“Kaner just told me he wasn’t feeling great and I’m a little tired so we’ll catch you guys next time. Yeah?”</p><p>Sharpy pushes Jonny off of him and this time Jonny lets him go. “Yeah, yeah. Fuck off.”</p><p>Patrick watches in awe as Sharpy says his goodbyes and shuffles off to his own car, more subdued than when he arrived. He doesn’t know how Jonny does it, how he neutralizes a situation like that so quickly. Jonny can be an angry psycho at times, incapable of managing his own temper and boiling over to the point he burns himself, but he can also soothe others and see what they need in a way Patrick deeply admires.</p><p>He gets caught up in replaying how Jonny so quickly and efficiently took control of the situation he doesn’t realize they’ve walked through the parking garage and all the way to Jonny’s Prius.</p><p>A beep-beep and then it’s unlocked and he’s sliding inside and panic begins to rise again.</p><p>“He knows something,” he tells Jonny in the quiet; his eyes feel wide, and Jonny looks amused.</p><p>“He doesn’t know anything.”</p><p>“What makes you so sure?”</p><p>Jonny squeezes his knee, but doesn’t leave his hand there, Patrick’s not sure why. “If he knew something he would’ve just said it. Since when can Sharpy ever keep his mouth shut about anything?” </p><p>Patrick considers that thought. “Okay, valid point.”</p><p>Smug, Jonny nods, like he knows and starts the car. Paint It Black starts blasting through the speakers.</p><p>“OH MY GOD!” Patrick yells</p><p>The entire drive back to his place Jonny laughs. He laughs until he bends Patrick over the back of his couch, goes to his knees, and shoves his face in Patrick’s ass. Then he’s too busy using his tongue for better things to bother with being a loudmouth jackass.</p><p>Fingers join his tongue, ten, maybe twenty minutes in, Patrick can’t keep track of the time, curled over like he is and trying to hold it together as he rubs his ass over Jonny’s mouth and his dick over the soft leather fabric.</p><p>“I’m about to jizz on your couch,” he pants, clutching at a couch cushion like his life depends on it.</p><p>“Don’t come yet,” Jonny says, breathless. He spreads Patrick’s thighs wider, presses two fingers all the way in.</p><p>Patrick jerks forward at the brush to his prostate and lets out a loud, gasping moan. He presses his forehead to the bend of his arm. “Please?”</p><p>“No,” Jonny says. “Not until the plug is in, baby.”</p><p>Patrick whines and reaches down to grip the base of his dick, pinching just enough to stave off the building current moving through him.</p><p>There’s the sound of a cap opening and then the lube is being pushed up into his hole, sliding slick up his crease, smeared over his taint. He feels messy with it and pleasantly open. The number four plug takes more work to get inside him, more patience than Patrick has, which is why it’s a good idea Jonny’s doing this instead of him.</p><p>He loses more time as Jonny works it in slowly, adding more lube as needed while Jonny’s warm fingers massage his rim to get it to loosen up, give in. It’s easy to float and let Jonny work on him, doesn’t hurt even if the pressure of it all causes his stomach to intermittently swoop.</p><p>“How’s this?” Jonny will ask. “Is this okay?” he’ll say. “How’s it feel, Peeksy?”</p><p>And Patrick tries to form words, but it’s hard to talk, to do anything other than just feel.</p><p>When the plug is finally in and Patrick comes, he clenches around it as he gulps in air - reaching out for something, anything to anchor him. “Can I suck your cock?” he asks as he tries to steady himself. If it can’t be Jonny pressing him down into a bed then he wants it to be Jonny grasping his head, big hands cupped around Patrick's neck, clutching him there as he holds Jonny’s big dick in his mouth.</p><p>Jonny curses, and pulls Patrick up off of the couch, brings them around to the other side of it and takes a seat, throws a pillow on the floor for Patrick to kneel on as he gets between Jonny’s legs. Fingers sift through the curls at the top of his head, gently drawing him in closer.</p><p>“Miss your hair,” Jonny breathes. He trails a thumb over Patrick’s bottom lip and Patrick sucks it into his mouth until Jonny shivers and tilts his hips up, eager.</p><p>Jonny’s cock is hard and hot to the touch, leaking at the rosy tip. Patrick’s mouth waters just looking at him. He runs his hands over Jonny’s thickly spread thighs and leans in, taking the head of Jonny’s fat dick in his mouth. It feels good to taste the salty tang of him, to have Jonny heavy on his tongue and heavier in his hands as he pumps the long length of him. </p><p>Soon he’ll have this inside of him, all the way, until he’s filling up Patrick’s guts.</p><p>He shudders as Jonny does, eyes clamping shut as Jonny presses a palm to Patrick’s cheek, brushing a finger over his closed eyelid and eyelashes, says, <i>“Baby,”</i> and comes down his throat.</p><p>*</p><p>The Cup final begins on the highest of highs with the Hawks taking game one then two at the United Center. Patrick’s so pumped he thinks he might be walking on air or floating like a really fluffy, sexy cloud in the sky. The Hawks haven’t lost a game since the Vancouver series and it feels as if they’re almost unbeatable at this point, like they might just slide into Philly and sweep the Flyers - win it all.</p><p>Except that’s not how it happens, not even close.</p><p>They blow games three and four, wiping out the Hawks' lead, setting themselves back to zero, and beating down Patrick’s confidence. It’s an entirely new low.</p><p>They tell the media they aren’t worried, they’re going to take it one day at a time, the same sound bite shit they always spew after a big loss. Never has it felt so forced and fake before. Patrick almost can’t stomach saying it when his heart is beating jack-rabbit fast inside his chest, when he wants to puke even considering the possibility of not taking the cup home.</p><p>The flight doesn’t leave until the six the next morning so they’re stuck in a hotel in Philly for the night after the game. At dinner Jonny barely eats and Patrick only chokes down enough food so he won’t feel awful the next day. Afterwards they go to their room and they don’t talk, resting on their own beds as some Will Ferrell movie plays on TV, the volume turned low.</p><p>When Jonny rolls over to go to sleep Patrick turns everything off and tries to sleep too.</p><p>He can’t.</p><p>His head is full of thoughts, worst-case scenarios, and nightmare endings. Last year broke his heart and they hadn't made it this far. He can’t breathe with the thought of getting so close and losing again.</p><p>It’s haunting.</p><p>He tosses and turns. Staring up at the ceiling for patches of time, he closes his eyes, flips to his side, then opens them again. It’s impossible to get comfortable or stay still. The pillow is too lumpy, and the sheets keep tangling at his feet from all of his restless moving around. </p><p>He wants to wake Jonny up so he isn’t alone, but he’s not sure what he’d say or how he’d explain this ball of nerves unfurling inside him and sticking everywhere like a spiderweb in a doorway.</p><p>“You need to sleep,” Jonny says, softer and more alert than Patrick would’ve expected.</p><p>Turning so he’s facing Jonny’s bed he finds Jonny’s already watching him, head pillowed on his arm.</p><p>Patrick sighs miserably. “I can’t.”</p><p>Jonny watches him for a minute, unmoving, then abruptly he sits up, slips out from under his covers and comes to Patrick’s beside, drawing the sheet and comforter away to get in. He doesn’t so much as ask Patrick to move over as he moves Patrick exactly where he wants him, on the left side of the bed, on his right side, with Jonny spooned up behind him.</p><p>A strong, warm arm rests itself over Patrick’s middle and pulls him close, until Patrick’s back is to Jonny’s chest and his ass is cradled near Jonny’s crotch. </p><p>“Close your eyes,” Jonny says, his breath tickling the nape of Patrick’s neck. “Go on, do it.”</p><p>Patrick ignores the goosebumps popping up along his forearms and the weird tingling in his tummy.</p><p>“Fuckin’ bossy,” he tells his pillow, face half smooshed into it.</p><p>Unable to wiggle around in this position without jostling Jonny more than Jonny is likely willing to put up with, Patrick forces himself to be still. Three long breaths in and out.</p><p>In and out.</p><p>Jonny’s hand spans the length of Patrick’s abdominal muscles when he spreads his fingers. Patrick can feel the tips feathering back and forth over his skin.</p><p>His eyes flutter shut.</p><p>“Think about what it’s going to be like after our next win,” Jonny says, above his ear, voice soothing. “How good it’ll feel to skate off the ice and know we’re up 3-2 in the series and it’s just one more after that. Just one more. Because the next game will be ours, Peeks. We can do this.” He pauses and waits a beat, then even quieter he says, “You believe me?”</p><p>Patrick doesn’t even have to think about it. “Yes.”</p><p>Jonny’s arm curls around him more. “Good. You should. I know all.”</p><p>Patrick blows out a surprised breath, the kind that ends on an unexpected laugh. “You’re a punkass, Toews. Please <i>know</i> that.”</p><p>“Maybe. Still true,” Jonny says.</p><p>Rocking back against Jonny twice, Patrick’s not even sure what he’s trying to accomplish here, and he has neither the energy nor the leverage to start anything. Heat sizzles up his chest as Jonny pulls him in tighter, closer, but he isn’t hard. Jonny isn’t hard. It’s weird in a familiar way, and should be unsettling to be caught like this, hemmed in.</p><p>But Jonny’s his buddy, and he’s safe so that makes it okay. He might not share a bed with Sharpy, or Spuzz, or god forbid Duncs, but that’s just because they’re a different kind of buddy. They don’t get the same benefits that Jonny does. </p><p>Minutes pass and Patrick realizes his limbs are starting to feel heavy, his eyelids too, and he’s drifting, right on the edge of sleep.</p><p>Jonny shifts, and Patrick can feel air at his back, like Jonny’s pulling away, like he might leave and that’s no good. Patrick holds onto Jonny’s arm still curled around his stomach.</p><p>“Don’t go,” he murmurs, mostly into his pillow.</p><p>And Jonny stays.</p><p>*</p><p>The puck is in. The puck is in the net. It’s in. It’s in and they’ve won and Patrick is skating, skating, skating and slamming into Niemi. He’s screaming. He’s yelling. He doesn’t even know what the fuck he’s saying. Some combination of: “It’s in! It’s fucking in! We won! Holy shit we fucking won!”</p><p>Then there’s bodies rushing up behind him, the entire team and Patrick’s in the middle of them all, voices everywhere, arms tugging at him, laughter and shouts, Sharpy shoving into the crowd so he can yank Patrick into a tight hug.</p><p>More questions are thrown at him, too many to count, all asking him the same thing: Are you sure it was in? </p><p><i>Yes</i>. Yes, he’s so fucking sure it’s in, all he can do is nod and smile, try not to fly apart.</p><p>A voice comes over the jumbotron announcing the Blackhawks are the 2010 Stanley Cup Champions and then Patrick’s being jostled and shook again, arms tugging at him, hugging him, everyone cheering and cursing, everyone smiling.</p><p>The adrenaline racing through him is like a lightning bolt flashing inside of him, and every time he remembers they’ve won, that he scored the overtime goal to win the game, it explodes in shock waves, filling him up. He’s overflowing. </p><p>As the boys disperse around him, Patrick looks around, searching and searching, skating forward until he sees Jonny on the other side of the rink. Their eyes meet and they smile and then Jonny’s barreling toward him, arms raised and expression so goddamn ecstatic Patrick feels like he just won again. His chest might be bursting open, he can’t be sure, he can’t breathe right now.</p><p>When Jonny pulls him into his arms, envelopes Patrick completely and presses his sweaty face to Patrick’s head, Patrick grabs a handful of Jonny’s jersey to keep him close. He realizes he’s shaking.</p><p>“You did it, Peeks,” Jonny whispers into his ear. He almost sounds mad, he sounds so fierce, voice full of conviction. There’s cameras everywhere, swarming in, and Patrick has to close his eyes to them, shut them all out but Jonny. “You won it for us. I’m so fucking proud of you, baby.”</p><p>Patrick tries to speak, but all he can manage to do is push out a watery and broken, “Jonny.”</p><p>“I always believed in you,” Jonny tells him. </p><p>And then he lets Patrick go, and then he’s moving away and Patrick’s moving away, more people surrounding them both, shoving them farther apart. There’s cameras and photographers, teammates, reporters, everyone talking at once. Patrick can’t concentrate.</p><p>Jonny’s announced MVP. He points at Patrick, mouthing ‘<i>you</i>’ after he accepts his award and Patrick’s lightheaded, all he can do is watch Jonny hand off the Conn Smythe and go back up for the Stanley Cup. </p><p>Hoss skates first, crying. Patrick looks up in the crowd to see his family waving and cheering. Mom and Dad are crying. Erica is screaming his name and Jess is holding up his #88 jersey and waving it like a flag. Jackie is smiling so wide it looks like it might split her face in two. The only reason Patrick isn’t completely losing it is because it still doesn’t feel quite real, and he knows once it does he won’t be able to hold it together. </p><p>When it’s his turn to skate with the Cup, all he can do is yell out nonsense and keep himself moving, moving, moving. It’s the lightest thing he’s ever held and the only thing he can think about is skating up to Jonny and saying, “I thought it’d feel heavier, right?”</p><p>He wonders if Jonny will agree. Looking around Patrick can’t find him in the surge of people coming onto the ice: family, friends, more reporters and photographers, wives, and girlfriends, kids in tiny Hawks jerseys. Patrick’s surrounded suddenly by his family, Mom and Dad hugging him, Erica cheesing it so hard that Patrick’s own smile stretches wider. Jessica and Jackie are on either side of his arms, babbling about how good he did.</p><p>Mom wipes at her eyes.</p><p>“Don’t start or I will,” Patrick tells her and she lets out a trembling laugh.</p><p>Thick arms come up behind, wrapping him up in a bear hug, and for one brief, shocking moment, Patrick expects it to be Jonny. </p><p>It’s not Jonny. It’s Mike, his closest childhood friend, followed directly by the rest of the Buffalo crew: Spuzz, Tom, Matt, and Josh. They move in on Patrick and bully him around, pulling on him and shouting in his ear, hyping him up like he’s the king of the fucking world, and hey, maybe tonight he is - maybe for this one night he’s finally proven everyone who told him he was too small or too weak wrong.</p><p>Once the reporters and TV crews have gotten all the footage they’ll need, the team moves off of the ice and alcohol is brought out. After the sixth or seventh beer and the endless bottles of shared champagne being passed around, Patrick’s ability to track what’s going on gets a little fuzzy, moments blending together. One second he’s half-naked and singing songs in the Philly locker room, the next he’s holding up the Cup with Jonny and their picture is being taken. Then he’s on a plane and he’s clothed; he thinks he slept for an hour maybe, drank some water, more champagne. He’s got his game suit on but he can’t remember showering or getting dressed. He’s off the plane at O’Hare and everyone is agreeing to meet up at Harry Caray’s. </p><p>Patrick doesn’t sleep more than four hours for the next three days. He doesn’t remember how he gets home, how he makes it to bed, or how he even gets undressed. He mostly doesn’t get undressed. And he doesn’t remember falling asleep so much as he passes out, wakes up (with one shoe on and his left arm out of his shirt hole), eats whatever is nearby, and then begins guzzling alcohol again.</p><p>Mike makes sure he drinks water, Spuzz makes sure he drinks more beer, and Jonny hovers near in the background, always half-drunk and checking up on everyone else.</p><p>The team is at Exit, or maybe Mothers, or possibly Mahoney’s and Patrick’s stumbling around, blitzed out of his mind and trying to get to the bar to sit down on one of the few open stools when Spuzz hollers from behind and rushes past, his body slamming into Patrick’s and causing him to trip forward. Someone - no - Jonny, Jonny’s there, catching him by the waist and preventing him from falling.</p><p>“Hey you,” Jonny says, and he’s flushed, like he’s drunk. They’re all drunk, have been for days, but it’s funny to see Jonny switch off the intensity after months of it.</p><p>Has it always been this easy for him to relax and chill out? Should Patrick have just gotten him wasted on Fireball whenever Jonny acted like there was a stick up his ass?</p><p>Patrick giggles. He rests his head on Jonny’s shoulder and thinks about Jonny’s stick in <i>his</i> ass. It’d be a much bigger stick.</p><p>“You okay?” Jonny asks, and his hand cups around the back of Patrick’s neck. He shivers.</p><p>“Good. All gooooood.” He gives Jonny two thumbs up. “Water?”</p><p>He could probably take a nap right here on Jonny’s shoulder. It’s the comfiest shoulder he’s ever laid his head upon. If Jonny wanted to charge money to let people sleep on him, Patrick would pay him at least one million dollars. He’d pay so much no else would <i>ever</i> get to sleep on Jonny but him.</p><p>They reach the bar and Jonny helps Patrick up onto a stool and orders him a water with lemon.</p><p>With lemon.</p><p>Wow.</p><p>Patrick wants to curl around him and sit on his dick. It’s, like, the least he deserves for ordering Patrick lemon.</p><p>“You got me lemon,” Patrick says, blinking up at Jonny in awe from where he’s standing beside Patrick’s stool. </p><p>Jonny glances down at him, the corner of his mouth lifting, his brow furrowed. Is he amused? Confused? Patrick doesn’t know.</p><p>“Yeah?” Jonny says. “I thought you liked lemon.”</p><p>“I do.” Patrick beams. “Thank you.”</p><p>Jonny laughs. “You’re welcome, Peeks.” He touches Patrick’s hair, tugs at one of the curls not hidden underneath Patrick’s backwards Championship snapback. “Listen, I was thinking…”</p><p>In the background, We Are The Champions comes on and the entire bar cheers and shouts, everyone beginning to sing along. Patrick loves this song, he really does, but in the last week he’s heard it no less than a hundred times and by now he’s kind of sick of it. And at this volume it makes it difficult to hear what Jonny’s saying. He’d rather hear what Jonny’s saying.</p><p>He tugs on Jonny’s shirt, trying to pull him down so they can talk at his level, instead of Jonny’s level. Jonny’s much too tall, and he’s even taller with Patrick sitting. Jonny should sit. Or maybe they should both lie down - in Patrick’s bed preferably, a plug inside him and Jonny’s mouth all over him. It’s the least he deserves after his masterful OT goal. </p><p>No, wait.</p><p>That’s not what he wants.</p><p>He wants a championship-winning fuck. </p><p>The suggestion is on the tip of his tongue when Spuzz rushes up next to him and rams into Jonny’s side, knocking him back a step.</p><p>“Pat!” Spuzz says. “You gotta come check out this blonde. Her tits, man. I could nut just from looking at them.”</p><p>“Um,” Patrick says. And then he’s being yanked up off of his stool and half across the bar to look at some girl he doesn’t care about who has very spherically shaped boobs, grabby hands, and a hyena laugh.</p><p>Spuzz goes home alone that night. Actually he goes to Patrick’s home, alone, and pukes on Patrick’s guest bed, spends all afternoon apologizing and then orders the entire crew dinner using Patrick’s black Amex card.</p><p>Two days later, after a full morning, noon, and night of recovering they’re back in the Viagra Triangle on Rush, Bolly throwing out Red Bulls to those who need a boost before walking into the third bar of the evening. Mike’s been wanting to try Cristal all week; didn’t get any during the parade rally, he whines. Patrick can’t recall what the fuck Mike was doing during the parade. All he remembers is a sea of red, thousands upon thousands of faces, so many it was overwhelming and humbling. At some point he poured alcohol into Jonny’s mouth on the bus and then shook his ass in front of fans.</p><p>Everyone cheered him on too, because Patrick? He’s got the skills <i>and</i> the thrills.</p><p>Seabs orders the first round of drinks when they walk into the VIP section of The Underground. Duncs orders the second, Jonny the third, and then Spuzz suggests they switch to vodka and Patrick forgets who’s buying what for whom or when after that. </p><p>The music is thumping loudly as the bass shakes the floor. Everything is dark but for the array of colored spotlights crisscrossing overhead. There’s so many people packed inside that it’s hard to move anywhere without brushing up against someone else. The armpits and back of Patrick’s shirt are drenched, he’s surrounded by a group of people he doesn’t recognize and has zero recollection of meeting, and he really, really needs to stop moving. Just for a minute. A second. A little second.</p><p>He doesn’t realize he’s fallen asleep until he feels two hands trying to shake him awake.</p><p>“Kaner?” a voice says. “C’mon. Let’s get you up.”</p><p>The voice is low and deep. Patrick trusts that voice.</p><p>“Tired,” he says. He’d really like to sleep just a tiny bit more. Just five more minutes. Please.</p><p>“I know you are, but hey, let’s get you out of here, okay? Not the best place to sleep.”</p><p>Seems like sound logic. Patrick certainly can’t argue with that; his bed would be an excellent place to be right at this very moment.</p><p>He nods. When he’s not sure his answer was received, he tries to open his eyes. Too bright, closing the eyes again. “Okey dokey,” he says, pops out some finger guns and yawns.</p><p>He’s lifted out of his seat, one of his arms thrown over some large, muscular shoulders, and an equally muscular arm is curled around his waist, steadying him as they walk through the crowd. Patrick’s not exactly sure where they’re headed, but he hopes it’s somewhere quiet and less musty smelling.</p><p>“Tazer, where are you going?” someone says. It sounds like Sharpy.</p><p>“Home. I’m fuckin’ smashed,” Jonny says.  Patrick squints up at him. Yep, Jonny.</p><p>“You taking Kaner with you?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“I think Kaner’s buddies are looking for him,” Sharpy says.</p><p>Jonny scoffs, tightens his hand around Patrick’s waist like he thinks Patrick’s going somewhere. “So? I don’t give a fuck. Look at him - he can’t even walk. He needs to sleep it off. I’m not leaving him out there in the hopes Spizz is getting him back.”</p><p>He seems annoyed. Patrick’s not sure why he’d be annoyed. He rests his head on Jonny because Jonny is nice to rest on. Patrick’s learned that well.</p><p>“You mean Spuzz?” Sharpy asks.</p><p>“Like it matters,” Jonny says, and then they’re moving again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”</p><p>“Bye, Kaner!”</p><p>Patrick waves back and forth, moves his arm around in a big circle so Sharpy can see. “Bye-bye!”</p><p>The air isn’t much cooler when they make it outside, but it’s nice to be away from the noise and all of the moving bodies. They walk for a while and he hears people around them talking, hears Jonny tell someone, “I’m sorry. Not right now.” They walk for what feels like seventeen miles and by the time Jonny helps Patrick into his car, Patrick can barely keep his head up, let alone his eyes open.</p><p>The next thing he knows he’s being lifted out of the car, his whole body scooped up in a bridal carry like on the cover of one of Erica’s dirty romance novels. He doesn’t read those. Not really. Sometimes he skims the sex scenes and the endings, when everything is happy and they’re all in love and shit. It’s not the same as reading the whole book. It doesn’t count.</p><p>There’s the motion of walking, footsteps plodding along, and then stopping.</p><p>A dinging noise.</p><p>“Where are we going?” Patrick mumbles.</p><p>“My place.”</p><p>“Whose place?”</p><p>“Mine.”</p><p>“Who are you?” he asks. It’s hard to figure out what’s going on. Is he with Mike? Sharpy? No. They’re back at the club. Or was it the bar? He’s so tired.</p><p>“Patrick, it’s me. Jonny.”</p><p>“My Jonny?” he says. It sounds like Jonny now that he thinks about it. Jonny has the best voice.</p><p>“Yes.</p><p>“That’s good. I like my Jonny.” He nuzzles his face against Jonny’s shoulder, presses his nose to Jonny’s shirt. It smells like him too. Good. Woodsy and earthy. Like an expensive Yankee candle.</p><p>“You doing alright, Peeks? You feeling okay?” </p><p>They move another step and then they’re going up and up. An elevator, Patrick’s guessing. There’s another ding and then they’re getting off, more steps, more movement.</p><p>“Yeah,” Patrick says, drooling a little on Jonny’s shirt. “Maybe dizzy. A little tired. Oooh can’t open my eyes. Bad idea. Things all twirly. Just gonna rest here.”</p><p>Jonny laughs. “That’s okay, baby. I got you.”</p><p>Patrick thinks he maybe says, “Okay.” It’s possible he just thinks it, already falling asleep again.</p><p>Eventually Jonny sets him down on a bed, takes off his shoes, then his pants, orders him to swallow some Tylenol and half a bottle of water, and tucks them both in.  </p><p>*</p><p>By Friday, Mike, Matt, Tom and Josh have to head back to Buffalo for work and they drag Spuzz, kicking and screaming, with them. Patrick loves his buddies, but he’s also happy to have his apartment back, even if it’s a gigantic mess that he can’t currently handle looking at. He sends them off at Midway and then circles back to Jonny’s place with no one else to worry about entertaining, and nothing else to do but begin his long-deserved summer vacation.</p><p>Predictably, Jonny’s mostly naked when Patrick walks back through the door, lounging on the couch shirtless and with only a pair of cotton black shorts on. His hair is mussed, the skin below his eyes a little puffy from lack of sleep, and his lips wet from the bottle of water he’s currently chugging.</p><p>Patrick walks in, kicks off his tennis shoes, and takes a seat on the opposite end of the couch. He already regrets wearing socks and peels those off too.</p><p>“You came back,” Jonny says, cocking his head in Patrick’s direction, half-resting on the couch. He’s the picture of cozy laziness slouched down low like he is, legs stretched out, remote casually in one hand, as Breaking Bad plays on TV.</p><p>“I, uh. I wouldn’t have left, but, I had to send the boys off home.” Patrick shrugs. He takes Jonny’s half-empty water bottle and finishes it off, carefully not staring at Jonny’s exposed abs or the way they move every time he breathes.</p><p>Jonny gives him an unimpressed look. “And I’ll really miss them,” he says flatly.</p><p>A laugh bubbles up Patrick can’t quite suppress. He throws the empty water bottle at Jonny’s head. “They’re good guys.”</p><p>Another look. “Sure. I always trust dudes named Spazz with my credit card.”</p><p>Patrick flings a throw pillow, but Jonny’s prepared for this round and shields himself with a forearm, hand catching it before it falls to the floor. His bicep bulges as he curls the pillow against his chest. It shouldn’t make Patrick’s dick twitch, but then Patrick’s dick was already halfway to hard the moment he walked in and saw Jonny almost naked.</p><p>He flicks his eyes back to the TV. “It’s Spuzz.”</p><p>They watch Walter White and Jesse Pinkman try to kill a fly in the lab before it gets into the meth. Patrick hasn’t watched any of the new season yet, and he’s half tempted to tell Jonny to turn it off but Jonny turns the volume low and tosses the remote onto the nearby coffee table.</p><p>“How’d you meet?” he asks.</p><p>At first Patrick isn’t sure who Jonny’s referring to and then he recalls his smartass expression as he brought up Spuzz.</p><p>“He’s Tom’s older cousin,” Patrick explains. “He was always around when we were growing up, but he was in high school when we were in middle school, so it wasn’t until I got drafted to the Hawks that he started hanging around more.”</p><p>“Yeah, I bet,” Jonny scoffs. He frowns down at his own hands.</p><p>Patrick really shouldn’t find his pissy, grouchy attitude this entertaining. </p><p>Jonny’s never liked Spuzz, and he barely tolerates Tom or Matt, usually flat out ignores Josh. Mike is Patrick’s only friend from home who Jonny has ever gotten along with and maybe even actually enjoys hanging out around. Patrick’s still not sure why. </p><p>The first time the whole crew came to visit near the tail end of his and Jonny’s rookie year, Spuzz had invited Jonny out to dinner with them, teased him all night about fucking up his chances of winning the Calder, and then convinced everyone to go clubbing before they'd paid, leaving Jonny with the bill. Patrick had offered to pay him back for it later, but Jonny had waved him off, seemingly unbothered and said, “It’s all good. I owed Mike one.”</p><p>Back then Patrick had asked him what that meant but Jonny had never clarified. It’s been long enough now he isn’t sure how he’d bring it up, even if the not knowing still eats at him.</p><p>“Spuzz is chill and fun, and I’ve known Tommy since we were basically in diapers. We played mite hockey together, he’s like family, so, you don’t have to be a jackass about it,” Patrick says, a little defensive.</p><p>Jonny's eyes flicker to his, catch, and hold. He looks gravely serious. “Just…”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Be careful,” Jonny says.</p><p>It’s really, truly, intensely embarrassing how Jonny’s whole Caring Canadian Captain routine has Patrick completely hard. To be fair, he was already two-thirds of the way there, but it’s disgusting that just the vicious look flashing in Jonny's eyes is enough to do Patrick in.</p><p>He curls into himself, palms pressing over his kneecaps, trying to fight the urge to go to him. He can feel Jonny watching him and he struggles to be still, to not look back. If Patrick ever had any dignity, it’s been falling like sand specks between his fingers for the last year, and now? With Jonny’s dumb face staring at him like he’s - like he’s worth protecting? Patrick can’t help but smack those hands together and brush them off until they’re clean.</p><p>Who needs dignity anyway? Not him.</p><p>He stands and walks four steps over, stops, and slides onto Jonny’s lap like it’s nothing, like it’s natural. His stomach flips at the thought. Keeping his arms at his sides, Patrick doesn’t touch, not yet, even if he wants to, even if he has to curl his hands into fists to stop himself.</p><p>Jonny has no similar compunctions about waiting, cupping his palms around Patrick’s waist and pressing his fingertips in.</p><p>Patrick rolls his eyes. “I don’t want to talk about Spuzz anymore.”</p><p>There’s a smile. It’s a small thing. “What <i>do</i> you want, Peeks?”</p><p>Patrick rocks his hips forward an inch. He can feel Jonny’s dick, underneath his shorts, pressed up against his own. Jonny isn’t hard yet, but when he notices that Patrick is, first his breath hitches, then his eyes snap up and flare, and go implausibly, impossibly darker.</p><p>“I want my reward for winning you the Cup,” Patrick says, licking his lips.</p><p>Hands tighten on Patrick’s hips as Jonny stares at his mouth. He looks hungry. He looks fucking parched and like Patrick’s lips are the only water in a fifty-mile radius. </p><p>There’s significant swallowing as Patrick tries to remember why he told himself not to touch. Fuck that. No human could keep up the pretense when Jonathan Toews is holding you like he’s barely restraining himself, with an expression that reads: must devour.</p><p>Patrick wraps his arms loosely around Jonny’s neck, leans in another inch, and accidentally rocks forward again.</p><p>Jonny’s lips curve wickedly. “You won it for me?”</p><p>“For you - for the team, all of us,” Patrick says, trying to inhale and suddenly unable to. He exhales on the end of a cough and ducks his head.</p><p>Jonny straightens, tugging Patrick with him as he sits up, resituating them so Jonny can lean in and brush his lips over Patrick’s neck, drawing a line up to his jaw and the shell of his ear. Patrick shivers as Jonny whispers, “And you did it so well, baby. First time in forty-nine years. Can’t stop thinking about it. How good you were, that goal you scored. You slid right past that defenseman and snuck in the puck, so slick no one even saw it. No one even knew.”</p><p>Patrick whimpers and begins a slow grind with the movement of his hips, utterly incapable of stopping himself. It’s embarrassing how quickly he’s already unraveling and they aren’t even naked yet. He needs to get a fucking grip.</p><p>He can’t.</p><p>Whatever willpower Patrick’s been grasping at since Jonny first asked him if he wanted to touch is now gone, along with his dignity, his sanity, and probably his shame. </p><p>Jonny’s teeth scrape over his neck, just enough to sting, and then a tongue joins in, then lips, and they’re sucking, kissing, pulling at his skin in the most delicious way. Patrick loses his train of thought for a few beats.</p><p>They were talking about something. Something, something important. Something shiny.</p><p>Oh, the Cup. The win.</p><p>“I knew,” Patrick breathes. “I felt it go in. Like all the fucking air rushed out of me and then flooded back in.” </p><p>“You should’ve gotten MVP just for that goal alone,” Jonny says. He sounds almost regretful.</p><p>Patrick pulls back, even though the urge to move in closer is a heavy thing dragging him the opposite way. He can see the self-deprecating glint in Jonny’s expression, the lopsided turn of his mouth. He’s fucking ridiculous. “Shut up. We wouldn’t have even gotten that far without you. Guaranteed.” </p><p>“I don’t know about that.” Jonny shrugs.</p><p>Patrick could shake him. He might consider strangling him. Later.</p><p>“Yes you do. You’re being stupid on purpose.” </p><p>“I’m just a center,” Jonny says, like Patrick isn’t just a winger, like they both aren’t just hockey players, like that argument has any merit at all.</p><p>“We all need you.”</p><p>“Do you?” Jonny asks. He says it carefully, quietly, like the answer might crush him and Patrick doesn’t understand why. Jonny’s been there through most of the biggest moments in Patrick’s life and Patrick’s never not - he’s always - it’s too heavy of a question to simply say yes or no.</p><p>Maybe Patrick's weak, but he gives in and folds himself around Jonny again, avoiding his searching gaze and his ferocious eyes, so black they might drag Patrick down. </p><p>He hides his face against Jonny’s, rubs his cheek there, inhales slowly and realizes he’s still rubbing his cock over Jonny’s, that he’s leaking through his boxers and the front of his shorts, can feel the wet patch catching on the head of his cock. “Yeah, Jon, I need you - need you to fuck me.”</p><p>Jonny's hands, which have migrated from his hips to his ass, squeeze hard. Jonny’s hips lift as he sucks in a sharp breath. “What? Right now?”</p><p>“You busy? Have something else pressing to do?”</p><p>Jonny laughs. “No.”</p><p>“Then I want you inside of me.”</p><p>“Patrick. <i>Fuck</i>.” Jonny shudders and slides a big hand up the entire length of Patrick’s back, fists the fabric at the back of his shirt. If he ripped it off right now, Patrick wouldn’t even mind. Hell, he’d encourage it. “What about the last plug though?”</p><p>“I’ve been wearing it on and off all week,” Patrick tells the crook of Jonny’s neck. He licks the skin there, tasting the saltiness, the heat. It’s so good that he already feels close to coming, he’s so on edge. “I’m ready. I’m so goddamn ready. Don’t make me wait anymore.”</p><p>The hand on Patrick’s ass disappears and reappears, slipping underneath Patrick’s shorts and his boxers, sliding over bare skin and down to where the plug is fitted tightly inside his hole, stretched around it, the end a little slippery with lube and flat over his rim. Fingers move over it, Jonny prodding, and then there are two taps to the plug in a quick burst, causing Patrick to jerk forward and moan as Jonny’s eyes briefly flutter shut. He taps again and again, and Patrick’s about to beg him to stop when Jonny’s other hand lets go of Patrick’s shirt in favor of cupping the back of Patrick’s neck, fingers tangling in his hair. He pulls, just a little, to guide Patrick’s face up and away. Patrick wants to fight him, stay where it’s safe and comfortable right here, but he doesn’t. This feels too huge to try to escape.</p><p>“I’ve been waiting too. You think it’s been easy?” Jonny asks. “But I don’t wanna rush this and hurt you.”</p><p>It’s easier to smile than Patrick figures it might be with Jonny looking so solemn, but then again, this is a familiar dance Patrick knows all the steps to. “What do you think I’ve been training my ass for these last few months, Toews? The Dicklympics?  No. I’m good to go.”</p><p>Momentary amusement mixes with annoyance and finally settles as something like tentative desire on Jonny's face. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“Yes! I want my reward,” Patrick says, and his smile grows brash and bright, more confident than he’s ever actually felt, but fuck it, he does want this, even if it goes horribly, even if it wrecks him irrevocably.</p><p>“You’ve got it, Peeks,” Jonny says and he’s smiling too. He stands, half-picking Patrick up as he goes and letting him slowly slide down the front of Jonny’s body, where Patrick can feel that his big cock is now hot and hard, snugged up against his thigh inside his shorts. His hands are somehow still on Patrick’s ass, like it’s a homing beacon for Jonny’s palms to rest upon. “Been so good for me. I’m going to give you whatever you want.”</p><p>Patrick can actually feel the damp patch on his boxers become wetter at Jonny’s words, and he doesn’t know what to say, and he knows he shouldn’t look up at Jonny with his mouth hanging open, his eyes blinking slowly. It’s probably not a very attractive picture, but how the fuck does a person respond to that?</p><p>
  <i>Anything he wants?</i>
</p><p>Christ. They’ll be here all day. All week. All summer.</p><p>His brain hurts from trying to catalogue all the shit he wants Jonny to do to him.</p><p>He’s not going to make an actual list, that would be humiliating, and hey look, there <i>was</i> a grain of dignity left in there somewhere. </p><p>“C’mon,” Patrick says, taking hold of Jonny’s hand and tugging him forward.</p><p>Jonny goes easily, following behind as Patrick guides them from the living room, through the hallway, all the way to the master bedroom. The bed isn’t made this time and several of Jonny’s clothes are scattered across the floor. The blinds are closed, the curtains drawn, the room mostly dark but for the light on the nightstand, which sits next to three half-empty water bottles, a pair of headphones, and a bottle of Tylenol Extra Strength.</p><p>Rubbing his thumb over one of Jonny’s knuckles Patrick lets his hand go to begin undressing. It doesn’t take much effort, just slipping out of his gray T-shirt and his blue shorts, pushing them off in one swift movement as he draws the boxers down with them. Jonny takes even less time, practically already naked with the way his own shorts are clinging to his thighs and cock. It’s goddamn obscene. When he hooks his fingers in the waistband of his sweats and brings them over his cock, it springs up like it’s saying, “Hello, how do you do?”</p><p><i>Never better</i>, Patrick thinks. <i>How about you?</i></p><p>Jonny’s watching him like he’s about to pounce, eyes zeroed in. “I wanna see it,” he says. “The plug in you.”</p><p>“You’ve seen it a bunch,” Patrick laughs.</p><p>“Not the biggest one. Please?” The way he asks, sweet and earnest, causes Patrick’s breath to stutter.</p><p>He clenches around the plug and gets up on the bed, heat pooling in his balls as he makes himself comfortable on Jonny’s pillows.</p><p>“Yeah, okay. On my back?”</p><p>Jonny nods. “Pull your legs up and hold them. Hands under your knees. Just like that, baby.”</p><p>Patrick does as he’s told, exposing himself for Jonny’s view and watching the way Jonny’s throat works, his cheeks flushing red all the way down to his neck. He’s still just standing there like he’s frozen in place as his eyes eat Patrick up.</p><p>“Jesus Christ. I want to fuck you so bad.”</p><p>“Then stopping staring at me and come fuck me,” Patrick pleads. He wants to close his eyes, turn his head, take a minute to check out. It’s all rushing in too fast now. He doesn’t want to stop, but he can feel his heart pounding, the nerves crawling in and taking hold.</p><p>There's a shuttered pause and then Jonny is knee-walking across the mattress to him, a tube of lube in one hand, and where it came from or how he suddenly produced it Patrick isn’t certain and doesn’t particularly care.</p><p>“I need to take the plug out first,” Jonny says as he looks Patrick over again. So much looking. </p><p>“Yes,” Patrick agrees. As long as it gets Jonny to finally touch him, Patrick would agree to just about anything right now.</p><p>Big hands smooth up the backs of his thighs, down, and around the sides of his ass. He squeezes and pulls, watching the way Patrick’s hole opens up that tiny bit more around the plug already stuffed inside him.</p><p>“How long did it take you to work it in?”</p><p>“Today or the first time?” Patrick asks.</p><p>“The first time,” Jonny says, then stops and seems reconsider his answer. “Today. Both.” He smirks at his own answer. What an idiot.</p><p>He wants Jonny on him so much.</p><p>“I could only get it in halfway when I tried last week. I wasn’t really putting much effort in though. I was kind of hungover. But then a few days later I tried it again when I was drunk and horny and alone and-”</p><p>Jonny frowns. “You should’ve called me.”</p><p>“You were flirting with some brunette at Mothers. You looked busy.” Patrick bites at his lip. He wants to let go of his legs, but they don’t have anywhere to go with Jonny  kneeling between them.</p><p>“I wasn’t,” Jonny says, sitting up a little. “I didn’t take anyone home.”</p><p>“Oh,” Patrick blinks, reworking the whole concept of that evening in his head with this new information. She was beautiful and they’d looked nice together, laughing in a darkened corner as her hand kept caressing Jonny's forearm. They looked like they’d fit in a way Patrick hadn’t ever with any woman he’d tried to date. She was the kind of girl you married, not the kind you fucked for one night and never saw again. He didn’t think Jonny would bring her home, not really, but the not knowing had sat like lead in the bottom of Patrick's stomach for days after. “I almost did call, but the boys were all passed out at my place. It was like four in the morning.”</p><p>“I would’ve come,” Jonny says without pause.</p><p>Patrick bites back a smile. “Yeah?” </p><p>“Yeah.” Jonny grins, and he licks his own lips. “So you put the plug in while you were drunk?”</p><p>“Went in a lot easier that way.” It had slid in without much resistance at all, only the familiar pressure Patrick was learning to recognize was good, unlike the stinging pressure he now knew meant slow down, stop, come back later.</p><p>“Probably not the safest idea. Don’t do that again okay?”</p><p>“It’s fine,” Patrick scoffs. “I’m good. Look at me.”</p><p>“I’m looking,” Jonny says, eyes trailing over Patrick’s face, his chest, abs, the blood-red head of his cock, his tight, full balls, to where the flat of the plug shields Patrick’s wet hole.</p><p>Jonny taps two fingers against it and it reverberates right over Patrick’s prostate. The number five plug is big enough that it doesn’t even need to be pushed on to connect with Patrick’s prostate and stimulate it. He’s learned just moving in certain directions gives him the friction he wants, just walking can trigger it, can drive him insane. He’s been half-turned on, this tingling low-level arousal, since the second he put it in himself and made the decision to drive back to Jonny’s apartment. </p><p>It takes Jonny twice as long as it would for Patrick to ease the plug out, long enough Patrick has to chew on his cheek to keep himself from snapping at Jonny to hurry up. When it’s gone, he can’t help himself from immediately clenching down on air, the emptiness making him a little dizzy and untethered. Jonny pets over his taint and open, wet hole. He circles the rim with three fingertips, gentle, teasing, and then dips them inside all the way to the second knuckle. Patrick moans and tries to move his hips upward, tries to get them deeper, but it’s difficult to do much of anything in this position. But it’s okay, Jonny sees what he wants and gives it to him, fucking his fingers in and out of Patrick, adding a fourth finger and repeating the process.</p><p>Patrick gasps as Jonny begins massaging his insides, pressing and milking, making Patrick’s dick leak a steady stream onto his belly. </p><p>“Stop, oh my god, stop or I’m gonna come,” he says, pressing his head back into the pillow.</p><p>It’d be so easy to let go right now, to give in, but he’s been patient this far, he’s waited, and he refuses to blow it until Jonny’s inside.</p><p>“I should get a condom,” Jonny says after he softly withdraws his fingers. He moves to get up off the bed and Patrick lets go of his right thigh to reach out for him.</p><p>“You don’t have to. I’m clean. We were both tested at the start of the season. Do we really need it?”</p><p>“How do you know I’m clean?”</p><p>“Because obviously you are. Right?”</p><p>“I am,” Jonny says.</p><p>Patrick lets go of his left leg and leans up on his elbows. “You been with anyone else recently?”</p><p>“No. No one else since you.” Jonny scratches the back of his neck. That’s all the confirmation Patrick needs.</p><p>“Me neither,” he says and lies back down, spreading his legs to make room for Jonny between them. “Good. I’m glad that’s settled.”</p><p>Jonny does his staring thing for a bit, like he’s thinking, and Patrick wants to ask about what, if he’s maybe remembering the brunette from Mothers, if he’d rather fuck her bare, save it for her. He wants to ask, but he doesn’t want to know the answer. For now he’s not with her, or anyone else. He’s with Patrick. He’s slicking up his big cock with lube for Patrick. He’s rubbing lube into Patrick to make him ready, to make sure it’s good for them both. And it might be a metric fuckton of lube, and Patrick might want to rag on him about it, but he won’t, not when they’re finally this close.</p><p>For weeks now, time has felt like a record with a scratch, skipping forward so quickly he can’t recall everything that’s been happening even as he’s been present for every moment of it. But now it all slows, seconds becoming tiny eternities that he wants to build a house in and live forever.</p><p>As Jonny settles on top of him and fits his thick cock head to Patrick’s hole, he rubs it around the rim like he did the first time they attempted this, circling and circling, and Patrick’s open enough now that his body is already trying to suck Jonny in.</p><p>“I’ll go slow. If you need me to stop-”</p><p>“I’ll tell you,” Patrick breathes.</p><p>“Promise me.” </p><p>“Dude.”</p><p>“I’m not kidding,” Jonny says, brow furrowing so intensely it’s beginning to form the letter W. Patrick laughs and wraps his legs around Jonny’s middle, drawing him in another inch and causing them both to moan. He runs his fingers over Jonny’s forehead, smoothing it out, over his eyebrow and temple, down the line of his jaw.</p><p>“I promise,” Patrick tells him and feels Jonny slide in more, and a little more, and a bit more after that until the pressure builds so much his eyes begin to water. “Fuck. Sweet Jesus. Are you in?”</p><p>“Halfway there,” Jonny groans. He sounds like he’s gritting his teeth. His hairline is growing sweaty and his face is so flushed Patrick can feel the heat radiating off of him without even touching his skin.</p><p>Slow, an inch, slowly, another inch, slower still, one more inch, and it’s agonizing and it’s a goddamn revelation.</p><p>“<i>Holy fuck</i>,” Patrick cries as Jonny pumps his hips one more time until he’s finally, amazingly, all the way in.</p><p>Patrick can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t even remember which plane of existence he’s currently on. Everything from the back of his eyelids to the sparks zinging up his spine is a burning white, and it’s consuming, taking over every single one of his nerve endings and lighting them up.</p><p>“You okay?” Jonny asks, but Patrick can hardly hear him speak. It’s too much, too much, too much.</p><p>“Yeah, I’m. I'm good. Just need a minute,” he hears himself say. He didn’t know he could form words or thoughts, or do anything besides feel. He’s already trembling.</p><p>Jonny strokes Patrick’s dick a few times, smears the precome he’s spilled all over the crown, touches the sensitive nerve underneath as Patrick writhes beneath him. Even as Jonny’s chest expands with the shallow breaths he’s taking he stays mostly still, only leaning in slightly further. His stomach presses to Patrick’s stomach, Patrick’s dick gliding over Jonny’s abs. It feels so good, too good. It almost hurts.</p><p>“Oh fuck. Oh god,” he says. He thinks he might explode and break apart. He can’t move or look or touch. Keeping it together is becoming more impossible by the second. He could be floating or drowning and he wouldn’t know the difference.</p><p>There’s a palm on his cheek, a thumb brushing over his lips.</p><p>“Patrick,” Jonny says, husky and low. “Patrick, look at me.”</p><p>He opens his eyes and Jonny kisses him. It feels like his first kiss, as if he’s never been kissed before. Everything is bright. It’s blazing. Jonny’s lips are soft and slick, his tongue licking at Patrick’s mouth as it works its way in, taking over. Jonny kisses like he plays hockey, like he captains the team, wholly and completely, with his entire being - his only purpose.</p><p>Patrick’s toes curl, his eyes roll back in his head, and when Jonny begins to pump his cock inside of Patrick, he sobs into Jonny’s mouth and comes. </p><p>The white flames fade into vivid starbursts that burst through him and crack him open, shatter him into a thousand pieces, until he’s nothing but particles, atoms, floating through the air.</p><p>He’s dead and Jonny has killed him.</p><p>Murdered by dick.</p><p>Dickslaughter.</p><p>Jonny kisses him again, kisses him until he’s spilled all over the both of them, until he’s clinging to Jonny and whimpering, an utter wreck.</p><p>“Baby,” Jonny says, and he sounds choked up. “You feel so fucking good. You’re so tight.”</p><p>“<i>Jon</i>,” Patrick murmurs. He can’t speak beyond that, can barely think past the knowledge that Jonny’s still inside him, still fucking him, his big dick sliding in and out of Patrick like it was made to be there.</p><p>Another kiss, and then one more. It’d almost be funny except Patrick wants to be kissed. He’s so thankful Jonny shaved off his horrid Amish beard now, his cheeks smooth and hair-free. His upper lip scar is right there and easy for Patrick lick over and suck, so he does, enjoying the way Jonny grunts and thrusts into him a little harder, hitting all of Patrick’s nerve points.</p><p>“You look so gorgeous on my cock,” Jonny says as he pushes up, glancing down at where they’re joined. “Wanna keep you here.”</p><p>Patrick drags him back in and fucks his tongue into Jonny’s mouth, rolls his hips in time with Jonny’s thrusts. “Come in me,” he moans against his mouth. “Wanna feel it, Jonny.” </p><p>He clenches around Jonny just to hear him growl and groan, every muscle in his neck straining with the effort not to fuck Patrick into the mattress. Patrick wants him to let go, even if his body isn’t ready for it, he wants it. </p><p>“Peeksy,” Jonny says and Patrick can tell he’s right on the brink.</p><p>“Kiss me again,” Patrick says, because he needs it too. “Please.”</p><p>Their lips barely touch before Jonny’s crying out and going off, pumping his come inside Patrick and shaking to pieces in his arms. For minutes afterwards they stay intertwined, trying to catch their breaths, trying to find some solid ground.</p><p>It’s a good thing Patrick doesn’t have to play hockey for the next few months. He’s not entirely sure he could walk right now, not even if Q was ordering him to.</p><p>Gross. Patrick doesn’t want to think about Q, or hockey, or anything besides how that was the best orgasm he’s ever had. He’s maybe never come so hard in his life. Last week was a close second, but this? He can’t move, he can’t breathe, he’s in a million shattered pieces and still he’s never felt so whole. If he could stay suspended in this moment, never leave it, he would. Without question.</p><p>Eventually Jonny eases up and off of him, pulling out slowly; it only makes Patrick hiss a little.</p><p>“How’s it feel? Does it hurt?”</p><p>Patrick shakes his head, it’s about all he can manage to move for the time being. “No. It feels...empty.”</p><p>“Want the plug again?” he asks. His head is on the pillow next to Patrick’s, his face sweaty and blotchy and nice. It’s a nice face. Stupid, but nice.</p><p>“Not the big one. Maybe…”</p><p>Jonny’s eyebrows rise, waiting.</p><p>Patrick bites his lip; it feels swollen and puffy from all the kissing. “Your fingers?”</p><p>The bed dips as Jonny rolls to his side and pulls Patrick over to him. He lifts Patrick’s leg so that it’s resting on Jonny’s hip and he reaches down to fit two fingers tenderly back inside him. </p><p>Sighing Patrick sinks back into the pillows and watches Jonny settle in, let out a long, relaxed breath. </p><p>There’s a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.</p><p>“You look…”</p><p>Jonny’s eyes flick to his. “I look?”</p><p><i>Happy</i>, Patrick wants to say. He can’t quite kick it off his tongue. “Good,” he says. “You look good, Jon.”</p><p>Jonny’s smile broadens into something real. “Yeah?”</p><p>“Like you didn’t know.”</p><p>“It’s nice to hear it,” he murmurs. “This better?” He crooks his fingers just so and Patrick shudders, curling into Jonny’s arms and pressing his face to Jonny’s chest.</p><p>“Yeah,” he says into Jonny’s skin. “I can feel your come leaking out of me.”</p><p>“Christ.” It’s Jonny’s turn to shiver, he nuzzles his face into Patrick’s hair. “Makes me wanna fuck you again. Now.”</p><p>Patrick yawns. “I need a nap first and then you’re on.”</p><p>They fall in and out of sleep for an hour. At one point, Patrick wakes, realizes Jonny’s cleaned him and covered him up, and then passes out again. The next time he comes to, Jonny is passed out behind him and half-draped over him, their skin sticky and hot wherever they’re touching. Patrick stirs him with a mouth on his cock, licking him wetly enough that Jonny moans, still half-asleep, and yanks Patrick onto his belly. He fucks him like that too, slow and languid in the pitch black of his room, no words spoken between them, just sounds and sweet, aching sensation.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2010</b>
</p><p>In Buffalo Patrick spends the first few weeks of July hanging near his pool with his sisters by day and going out partying with the crew by night. He drinks too much, gets scolded by his mom, then, later, his dad, and in penance goes to hang out with his grandpa for the entire weekend. With just the two of them around, Patrick can turn off his phone and relive all of the Cup highlights in minute detail, never once worrying that he sounds boastful. Grandpa eats it up, every tiny second. He can’t travel as much these days, too frail and his health too easily compromised. It was impossible for him to fly out to Chicago for any of the games, but Patrick can sit with him for hours in his worn leather down brown easy chair with the red, black, and white Hawks quilt folded over the back. A gift from his grandma made before she passed away.</p><p>On his Cup day, from his long list of places scheduled to go, Patrick promises to bring it by Grandpa’s house, and he does. Grandpa touches tender, wrinkled fingers to the engraved words and asks Patrick to show him where his name is located. Patrick reads off the entire Hawks roster for him, starting with Jonny,  his own thumb gliding over the cool metal and the inscribed letters of his name. Grandpa cries when he sees Patrick’s name. Patrick cries. And then Dad cries - all of them wiping at their eyes as they laugh and it’s...it’s a good moment. A good day.</p><p>*</p><p>In August he begins training again, eight-hour days spent stick-handling, skating, running, bike-riding, weight-lifting, and doing yoga. The pilates is new, but he’s giving it a go too.</p><p>Jonny sends a daily update with how many miles he’s biked, like Patrick’s supposed to be impressed or something. Twenty-five isn’t that many. </p><p>Then he sends Patrick pictures of his newly-finished basement that he’s turned into a workout room. There’s a killer skating area with a net in the back, a bunch of high-tech machines in one corner, and an entire wall of mirrors. The mirrors seem a bit excessive, but then Patrick knows Jonny probably read somewhere that it’s good to watch your form as you strength train, and besides, he can see Jonny in the reflection of the photo, shirtless and gleaming with sweat. Patrick gets some good use out of that photo.</p><p>Nobody could blame him.</p><p>Jonny’s body is fucking ridiculous.</p><p>By the beginning of September he’s already packing up to go back to Chicago and then to head over to Notre Dame for training camp. It feels like it’s been exactly ten minutes since he was last with the team, and yet he misses it, misses them, is eager to be back.</p><p>It’s weird stepping into a locker room and seeing all of the new faces, not seeing some old ones, hearing how much the roster changed over just one summer. When Patrick takes a seat beside Sharpy, he is, for once, alone.</p><p>He pulls Patrick into a quick hug. “How was your summer, kid?”</p><p>“Short.” Patrick grins.</p><p>“Just the way I like it,” Sharpy says. “Let’s do it again this season, eh?”</p><p>“That’s the plan.” Patrick folds his hands together. He watches Sharpy pull various equipment out of his gear bag, trying to get all of the stuff organized he’ll need for practice later. “You talked to Bur recently?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Sharpy says, quiet. “He said the Dallas locker room is smaller and no one took him out for dinner when he arrived, but he looks amazing in kelly green so it’s all good.”</p><p>They both bark out a laugh, the sound bouncing around the room for a beat before it dissolves and, with it, all of their good humor. Bur is gone.</p><p>It's a disconcerting new reality.</p><p>*</p><p>As they’re scheduled for different times, Patrick doesn’t see Jonny through most of fitness testing. Once they’re on the ice, there’s not much chance to do anything but say a quick hello before practice. They go through drills and scrimmages. Patrick plays half the time on Jonny’s line and half the time not, trying to work up a similar kind of chemistry that can never quite be replicated.  </p><p>They break for lunch in groups, Patrick, Sharpy, Skills, and Duncs eating together in the Notre Dame ice arena cafeteria. The Hawks brought in a chef and a nutritionist, setting up a detailed meal plan for the entire team, Patrick included. On the list of foods he’s allowed to consume, there are: salads with optional bland dressing, green beans, rice, meats, and sweet potatoes. Patrick already misses all of the delicious pizza and macaroni and cheese he ate in July.</p><p>His precious summer carbs.</p><p>Skills talks about how weird it is without Buff and Laddy around cracking jokes, or to not hear Q yell at Steeger about staying on his feet every five minutes. Most of the new guys this year have introduced themselves to Patrick and Patrick has just as quickly forgotten over half of their names, even if he’s got all of their numbers memorized. He might have to write nicknames on his hand at some point.</p><p>There’s more scrimmages in the late afternoon, more team meetings. The coaches call it quits for the day around five and tell everyone to be back in the morning no later than eight AM. Jonny decides the team needs to go to dinner together for bonding reasons, saying he doesn’t want anyone feeling left out as there are so many new faces. He then proceeds to let Seabs drag him past Patrick to the opposite end of the long table they all sit at and talk his ear off for an hour and a half. </p><p>It’s fine. It’s cool.</p><p>Patrick can be patient. He’s waited since June 30th, he can wait another hour. No big deal.</p><p>“Kaner, you gonna eat that?” Brouwer asks.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Are you finished?” He’s pointing at Patrick’s leftover steak.</p><p>“Oh. Uh, sure?” Patrick says and pushes the plate in his direction. </p><p>From the other end of the table, Patrick hears Jonny laugh and twists around to see if he can catch what’s so incredibly funny. No dice. </p><p>He goes back to jiggling his leg under the table and chewing the ever-loving-fuck out of his drink straw.</p><p>“Kaner, cut it out,” Sharpy says five minutes later, kicking at his foot under the table. “What’s your problem?”</p><p>“What?” Patrick looks around. The ceiling is an interesting shade of green. Is that lime or chartreuse? “Nothing.”</p><p>Sharpy squints at him.</p><p>“Stop squinting at me,”</p><p>“Stop fidgeting,” Sharpy says.</p><p>Patrick flips him off until he laughs and turns away. </p><p>The clock reads seven after nine. They have to be up early. Dinner cannot possibly go on much longer. Maybe Patrick will just walk out and take a cab back to the hotel and fuck his fist with the number five plug shoved up his ass. He made do on his own the whole summer this way, no Jonny needed. He can do it tonight. In fact, he can do it every night. No way Jonny's dick is as amazing as Patrick remembers it from back in June. He was high on winning and half-drunk; his memory almost definitely blew it all out of proportion.</p><p>Who needs Jonny? Not him. That’s for sure.</p><p>“You spending the night here?” Sharpy asks.</p><p>Patrick blinks and realizes most of the table is up and walking towards the restaurant exit. He didn’t even realize he’d zoned out.</p><p>He rides back to the hotel with a few of the new guys and Soupy, who’s happy to talk their heads off while Patrick stares out the window, wondering why Jonny didn’t wait for him. It’s almost ten by the time he unlocks the door to his room and walks inside. Jonny’s standing by his bed, near the window, and already shoeless, shirtless, his zipper undone on his pants when he looks up and sees Patrick.</p><p>“Hi,” Patrick says, walking farther into the room and awkwardly waving. He’s trying to fight a smile as Jonny’s face goes goofy, his mouth lopsided and soft. </p><p>“Hey you,” Jonny says, low.</p><p>He’s walking closer as Patrick does the same. </p><p>Closer and closer.</p><p>And then they’re kissing.</p><p>Patrick’s back slams against a wall, his arms going up around Jonny’s shoulders, Jonny’s hands sliding down to cup his ass. </p><p>And then they’re on the bed naked.</p><p>Clothes? Patrick can’t remember ever wearing clothes or even owning clothes. All he can think about is the glorious feel of skin on skin, Jonny’s body rubbing up against his own, slick and slippery fingers everywhere, a wet tongue and an even wetter cock. And then they’re moving against each other, Jonny inside him, so deep Patrick thinks he can feel Jonny in his throat. It’s a tight fit again, like the first time, and just as mind-meltingly good. Patrick’s biting at his pillow to keep from crying out, Jonny’s body behind his, thrusting inside him as he’s molded to Patrick’s back and whispering filthy words in his ear.</p><p>“Feel fucking amazing, baby. Gonna fill you so full of my come, you’ll be leaking for days,” Jonny pants. “Thought about this every day until I could have you again.”</p><p>The orgasm that hits Patrick is so complete he shivers as he comes all over both of them, and even after he collapses onto the bed. Jonny follows soon after.</p><p>Twenty minutes later they do it all over again.</p><p>It’s as if no time has passed at all.</p><p>*</p><p>The next day is more scrimmages, more meetings, more tests, and more training. By the time they get back to the hotel, Patrick’s wiped, ready for a long, hot shower and a soft bed to sleep at least seven hours in, uninterrupted.</p><p>“Mind if I join you?” Jonny says, when Patrick’s already completely wet and under the spray of water.</p><p>This is new. Or, well. Not new. They shower in the same room together frequently. With about eighteen to twenty other men. It usually doesn’t smell very nice, or feel like this, Jonny’s body sliding up behind him, hot to the touch and big enough that Patrick could lean back against him, close his eyes, and just float as the water warmed his front.</p><p>“Mmm,” Patrick hums.</p><p>If they can shower together in the locker room, then they can shower together in the hotel room. It’s really not that different. They’re teammates and buddies, it’s what they do. And honestly they’re just conserving water as well as time. It’s a two for one deal. Can’t pass that up!</p><p>“Wash my hair,” Patrick murmurs, fumbling for the shampoo bottle with his eyes closed. He has to bend a little to reach for it and can feel Jonny’s soft cock right up against the split of his ass. Suddenly sleep doesn’t seem as appealing of an idea as it did five minutes ago.</p><p>“Say please.” Jonny fits his hands to Patrick’s hips and drags him back a few inches, lets Patrick feel how his cock isn’t so soft anymore.</p><p>Patrick stands up fully and twists his head to glance back at Jonny’s pinked skin and smirking mouth. “Always have to be the one in charge, Tazer?”</p><p>“If you want something you gotta give something, Kaner.”</p><p>Patrick gave him five amazing passes today before he got taken off of Jonny’s line and put on Bolly’s. He gave Jonny a goal for the Red Team today too. At lunch he gave Jonny his extra Gatorade, and right now he’s giving Jonny his hot shower water and his mouth as he gets on his knees and licks over the head of Jonny’s thick cock. </p><p>He gives Jonny a lot of things.</p><p>In the end, Patrick doesn’t get his hair washed, but then, neither does Jonny. They forego the warmth of the shower for the horizontal plane of Jonny’s hotel bed. Patrick’s on his back with his legs thrown over Jonny’s shoulders and trying not to bite off his own tongue as Jonny fucks into him so hard he thinks he sees fucking stars, planets, maybe even galaxies behind his eyelids. When he comes, he shoots all the way up onto his own chin, over the hollow of his throat and down his chest. Jonny comes inside him and then collapses on top of him for long enough that it’s hard to breathe. Moving is impossible, and Patrick doesn’t care. He lies still and lets the ache in his ass and in his thighs roll through him. It still stings after they’re finished, as Jonny pulls out, and so Patrick doesn’t want him to yet. It’s better to stay here, smushed into the mattress with Jonny heavy and safe above him.</p><p>“How was your summer?” Jonny asks and begins to lick the come off Patrick’s chin and neck. He licks a line back up to Patrick’s mouth and shares with Patrick the taste of himself until their tongues are sliding slickly together just for the feel of it. It’s not a bad flavor, his own come. Less bitter than Jonny’s, but that’s probably due to all of the strawberry-flavored drinks he consumes. </p><p>He should get Jonny to try them, for no particular reason. Jonny might like them better than all of the raw blueberries intakes weekly. </p><p>What was the question again? Oh right, summer.</p><p>“Amazing, obviously,” Patrick says, pushing the newly grown out hair off of his forehead. “I don’t think the boys left my house once all summer. Party every night.” </p><p>Jonny pulls out slowly, rolls off of Patrick, and onto his back. He lets out a long breath. “Of course they didn’t.”</p><p>“How about you?”</p><p>“Went home for a while. Did my Cup day,” he says, wiping at his sweaty brow.  “Got a lake named after me. Traveled to Milan. You know, the usual.”</p><p>Patrick laughs. “A whole lake, huh?”</p><p>Of course the fucking Canadians would give their prodigal son a lake. Patrick scored the winning OT goal and all Buffalo gave him was a terrifying ride seventeen stories high in a cherry picker. Shit is unfair, man.</p><p>“It’s 2.4 kilometers long,” Jonny says nonchalantly. But he’s smiling from the side of his mouth, a little proud maybe, a little smug.</p><p>Patrick leans up to get his pillow better underneath his head, stretching out his spine and feeling the exquisite throb of his entire lower body. He’s going to feel it tomorrow during drills, even more so during his cycling session. They might need to take breaks on game nights.</p><p>Actually, wait. Patrick doesn’t enjoy that idea. Maybe he just needs to build up a tolerance - an endurance or sorts, like weightlifting or strength training. It’s repetition and patience. The more one practices, the more their body learns to adapt to the change. </p><p>He glances over and sees Jonny watching him move around in bed, trying to get more comfortable. He looks amused.</p><p>“Is that supposed to be impressive? Patrick asks. “How much is a kilometer?”</p><p>Jonny rolls his eyes. “Your American metric system is fucked.”</p><p>“So what you’re telling me is you don’t know?” Patrick says and then cracks up at the disgruntled twist of Jonny’s face. </p><p>A large hand grips one of Patrick’s thighs and pulls it over Jonny’s thighs, dragging him into an angle on the bed. It’s more comfortable to lie this way, even if Jonny didn’t intend it to be so. Patrick’s going to settle in and stay.</p><p>“I do,” Jonny states with all the confidence of a man twenty years older, and the stubbornness of a toddler. </p><p>“Then share with the class, Jon.”</p><p>“It’s like one kilometer for every half mile. So the lake is about 1.5 miles long.”</p><p>“Well, alright,” Patrick says, contemplating. “That is an adequately-sized lake. I mean, I’ve seen bigger, but it’s okay. You can’t always be the biggest.” He pats Jonny in consolation on his nicely sculpted pectoral muscle.</p><p>In return he receives a cool once over. It’s enough to get him laughing, but Jonny’s shifting before Patrick can even make a peep.</p><p>“Yes I can,” Jonny growls, rolling on top of Patrick, his dick already growing hard again. </p><p>Looks like Patrick’s new training regimen is about to start sooner than expected.</p><p>*</p><p>Preseason flies by, uneventful and with more losses than wins. Patrick isn’t worried. The Hawks often get off to a slow start, picking up momentum by November and taking off in January or February. It’s the usual ebb and flow of this team.</p><p>They lose in overtime to Colorado on opening night, and then again to Detroit two days later at the UC after they raise the Stanley Cup banner up to the rafters. It’s annoying but it’s fine. Patrick’s not worried.</p><p>In the following weeks, they win against Buffalo, lose to Nashville and go on a four-game win-streak that boosts the entire team’s morale. Right before Halloween they have a short homestand and Patrick makes plans for the Buffalo boys to come up and visit after receiving a few (more like several) suggestive texts to invite them to Chicago.</p><p>“Spuzz coming up for the weekend?” Sharpy asks post-practice one day.</p><p>They’re sitting by their lockers taking off gear, Sharpy peeling off his pads as Jonny unlaces his skates on Patrick’s other side. When Jonny hears Spuzz’s name, he makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat.</p><p>Patrick ignores him.</p><p>“How’d you know?” he asks Sharpy.</p><p>“He texted me,” Sharpy says. At Patrick’s questioning face, he continues, “During the Cup bar crawl, he was talking big one night about all the ‘snatch’ he could get back in Buffalo, acting like he could just roll into Chicago and do the same. I told him he was full of shit so he put his number in my phone. Said he was going to text me a picture every time he took a girl to bed. I got zero pictures.”</p><p>Jonny barks out a laugh so loud Patrick finds himself smiling too. </p><p>“What a fuckin’ moron,” Jonny murmurs.</p><p>“Hey!” Patrick says, trying not to feel offended. If Jonny and Sharpy think Spuzz, and by extension Patrick, can’t pick up, they're wrong. He can, he has, he probably will again. Maybe. “We did have girls around all summer. Hundreds of hot chicks.”</p><p>“Yeah?” Sharpy asks, wry.</p><p>“Oh yeah.” Patrick hums, and forces the biggest shit-eating grin across his face.</p><p>Who’s laughing now? Not Jonny.</p><p>Or anyone. </p><p>It’s actually gone very quiet all of sudden. Patrick flicks his eye over to Jonny who’s staring intently down at his skates, methodically unlacing them until one lace gets stuck and he pulls, pulls, then rips it out, snagging it over the black metal grommet. He kicks the skate off and leaves it on the floor.</p><p>“Sounds like you had fun,” Jonny says.</p><p>Patrick feels pleased. “I had the most fun of anyone. The best fun.”</p><p>“Well, great,” Jonny bites out. It doesn’t sound like he means that.</p><p>Sharpy smacks Patrick on the shoulder, ruffles his hair a little, like he’s proud. “You better not have gotten anyone pregnant, Peekaboo. We don’t need a mini Boo running around the locker room just yet.”</p><p>He knew Sharpy would find a way to call him out. He was braced for it, but he didn’t expect it to be this quickly, and in front of Jonny too.</p><p>Patrick ducks his head down. “No chance.”</p><p>“You sure?” Sharpy asks. He’s back to being amused again. </p><p>Fine, maybe there hadn’t been hundreds of hot chicks. Maybe there’d been like fifteen to twenty hot chicks. Patrick didn’t keep count, okay. But he’d seen them filter in and out over the summer, he’d flirted with a few, from his spot in the pool, or his edge of the couch. Had it gone any further than that? No. </p><p>“I, uh.” He bends down to take his own skates off, meticulously untying them and loosening the laces. “Yeah. I didn’t, um. I didn’t hook up with anyone.”</p><p>“Not even with the hundreds of hot chicks?”</p><p>Patrick carefully takes off his other skate. “Nope.”</p><p>“Not even one hot chick?” Sharpy asks. “One little hot chick?”</p><p>Patrick picks up one of his gloves and lobs it directly at Sharpy’s face. It bounces off his nose and lands one the ground. “Fuck off, dude.”</p><p>Luckily most of the locker room is empty by now. Guys have gone to the showers or already dressed and left for the day which means only Sharpy and Jonny are audience to his humiliation. Perfect.</p><p>“Maybe next time, bud.” Sharpy laughs. He hangs up the last of his gear, ruffles Patrick’s hair again, and walks off in the direction of the showers.</p><p>Patrick glances over expecting to see Jonny laughing at him as well only to find Jonny watching silently, almost searching.</p><p>“I got hit on a lot, okay,” Patrick says, his hackles rising. “People want this. Me.”</p><p>Jonny watches him for a long minute. </p><p>“Of course they do.”</p><p>He doesn’t sound like he’s joking. He tilts his face up when Patrick finally manages to look at him, holds Patrick's gaze long enough that Patrick ends up turning away and fidgeting with his hands.</p><p>“Well, what about you?”</p><p>“What about me?” Jonny says. He’s still looking. Patrick can feel the weight of his stare like it’s a thousand pounds on his back.</p><p>It shouldn’t matter. They’re just friends and whatever Jonny does on his own time is his own business. He has no obligations to tell Patrick anything.</p><p>“Did you sleep with anyone?” Patrick asks anyway.</p><p>“Yeah.” The word is said so easily Patrick’s insides twist sickly. </p><p>He didn’t. He thought. “Oh,” he breathes and tries to find something close to grab onto. The edge of the bench is solid enough. He squeezes the wood tightly.</p><p>Jonny slides over, closer until his shoulder bumps Patrick’s. “You, Kaner. Duh.”</p><p>Patrick’s eyes snap up, zeroing on Jonny’s teasing face. “I meant anyone else.”</p><p>“No,” Jonny says, knocks their elbows together. “No one else.”</p><p>Suddenly the urge to puke is gone. The constriction around his chest is no longer present. Weird.</p><p>Patrick smiles, ducks his head once more, and says, “Cool.”</p><p>*</p><p>During the November circus trip, Jonny takes to fucking Patrick after games and then working the number five plug inside Patrick after he comes. Sometimes they’ll stay up and watch a movie, other times they’ll go get food to eat and when they’re done, he’ll work the plug out and fuck Patrick again, or eat him out, or both. </p><p>If Patrick ever feels sore, he’ll rub this fancy organic hippie balm over Patrick’s hole, and an even fancier organic hippie lotion into his muscles.</p><p>“Feels like I’m getting a rub down from Paulie,” Patrick jokes one night, completely fucked out and made of jello as Jonny massages his thigh muscles.</p><p>Jonny snorts. “You’re thinking of Paulie right now?”</p><p>“Thinking of the boner I’ll get next time I go to him during the second period intermission.”</p><p>One of Jonny’s hands slides up to Patrick’s ass and begins kneading the muscle there, his thumb dipping into Patrick’s crease to brush over his hole. Patrick’s too worn out to get hard again or even move much, but a small moan crawls out of his mouth anyway.</p><p>“That’s okay,” Jonny says. “As long as you’re thinking of - of this.” His other hand joins in, the thumb circles his rim with more purpose.</p><p>“It’s not okay, you lunatic!” Patrick laughs. “That’d be a bad situation for everyone involved. Mostly me.”</p><p>Jonny leans down until his body is pressed over Patrick’s back, his soft cock catching between Patrick’s ass cheeks. He sucks a kiss into the nape of Patrick’s neck, humps Patrick’s ass until his hardening dick is gliding up and down Patrick’s still wet hole.</p><p>“Are you ready again?” Patrick asks. He’s teetering between amusement and astonishment. “It’s been ten minutes max.”</p><p>“Too tired?” Jonny kisses his shoulder, his spine, tries to lick at the corner of Patrick’s mouth. He turns his head farther so they can press their lips together in a more meaningful kiss, tongues swiping together.</p><p>“No,” Patrick pants as Jonny’s cockhead tugs at his hole. “But you’re doing all the work. I can barely move.”</p><p>Letting his weight fully press Patrick into the mattress, Jonny lowers himself down slowly. Patrick likes this too, the way Jonny covers him, can hold him down, how he never pushes too far, but just enough. “I do all of the work anyway.” He says it teasingly even as the arrogance in his tone ratchets up Patrick’s arousal. Jesus Christ, he should not be this into Jonny’s smug voice. </p><p>Does he use this voice when he fucks other people? Patrick clamps his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to think about that. Jonny said he isn’t fucking other people right now. That’s good. No other people. No condoms.</p><p>What Jonny said finally registers once Patrick takes a breath and he makes an offended grunt. “You don’t have to take your monster cock, okay? Don’t tell me I don’t make an effort.”</p><p>Jonny presses his face to Patrick’s neck, a little puff of a laugh warming Patrick’s skin. “Okay, baby.”</p><p>*</p><p>In early December, James Neal cross-checks Patrick into the boards so hard he temporarily loses his footing and the breath in his lungs, crumpling to the ice. The whistle is blown ten seconds later and Patrick’s so busy trying to get his bearings and stand up, it’s a delayed reaction when he sees Jonny at center ice, helmet off and punching at Neal’s face as he receives punches in return. He’s wailing on Neal, left arm holding his jersey and his right arm swinging back and forth at him like Neal personally shoved a stick up between his legs. Patrick can’t move for a few seconds, frozen in horror as he watches Jonny completely lose his shit.</p><p>It’s a terrifying sight to see.</p><p>When the linesman finally breaks them up, Jonny’s still screaming at Neal, calling him a <i>dirtbag piece of shit</i>, and trying to reach for him to yank him back in again.</p><p>“Let it go, Jon,” McCauley tells him and guides him in the direction of the penalty box.</p><p>Jonny receives a double minor and the Hawks are given a four minute penalty to fight off. The UC crowd goes nuts, booing and shouting as Patrick watches Jonny go to the box and slam his stick against the glass while swearing up a storm. There are about seven thousand questions Patrick wants to ask him and knows right now he can’t - that Jonny probably wouldn’t even be calm enough to answer coherently if he were able to. Luckily it’s the middle of third period, so even after the Stars score the Hawks still have a four to three lead, and when Sharpy puts away an empty netter in the last seconds of the game it gives them a five to three win.</p><p>Patrick doesn’t particularly care about the win, but he manages to put a smile on his face and visit with Bur when he sees Sharpy, Bolly, and a few other guys gathered around him outside of the Hawks locker room.</p><p>He doesn’t find Jonny inside the locker room, dressing room, any of the trainers’ rooms, or the coaches’ offices, and Patrick's about to give up and go home when he finally locates Jonny in Dr. Terry’s office, sitting on the end of the exam table in his suit pants and shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his tie, jacket, and coat resting on a chair in the corner of the room. He’s alone, head bent down and typing something on his phone, when Patrick walks in. </p><p>Jonny glances up as the door closes behind Patrick and immediately he looks Patrick over; his left eye is bruised, starting to swell, and his bottom lip is cut. </p><p>A joke is on the tip of Patrick’s tongue, anything to cut the tension and relieve this gnawing uneasiness he’s been feeling since he saw Neal slam a fist into Jonny’s temple and knock his head back, since he saw the pure, undiluted anger spewing out of Jonny’s eyes as he rammed his fist into Neal’s face.</p><p>“Oh, hello, Patrick,” Dr. Terry says, walking back in the room before Patrick can speak.</p><p>Patrick grins tightly. “Hey, Doc.”</p><p>“Anything I can do for you?”</p><p>“Nah, just checking on Captain Idiot, over here. Gotta make sure he’s good to go for the next game,” Patrick says around what feels like a fistful of wasps in his mouth.</p><p>Dr. Terry sets a clipboard down on his desk and hands a small baggy to Jonny. “A few bumps and bruises it looks like. Nothing serious.” He turns to Jonny. “Now if you have any headaches, Jon, any blurred vision or dizzy spells in the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours give me a call immediately. I’ve given you some ointment for the swelling and a few pain pills that should last you out the week. Anything comes up, however, let me know.”</p><p>“Will do,” Jonny says, grim-faced. He slides off the exam table and goes to collect his clothes. “Thanks.”</p><p>“That’s what I’m here for,” Dr. Terry says, and waves as Jonny ushers Patrick out of the door.</p><p>They walk down the hallway toward the exit for a bit, silent, shuffling their feet and far enough apart that Patrick can’t help but notice it. Once they’re alone, Jonny turns to him and cups his elbow. “You okay?”</p><p>“Isn’t that my line?” Patrick asks. He reaches up and touches Jonny’s cheek without thinking, fingertips tracing right underneath the reddening skin surrounding Jonny’s eye.</p><p>“You went down pretty hard.”</p><p>“Yeah, well.” Patrick shrugs. “You went pretty hard on Neal’s face.”</p><p>The edge of Jonny’s mouth twitches, just slightly, like he wants to smile, but won’t. “He deserved it. Are <i>you</i> okay?” He looks Patrick up and down again, top to bottom then bottom to top, as if he can see through Patrick’s clothes and the skin over his bones, right into his insides.</p><p>Absurdly it reminds Patrick of Superman and he gets lost for a few seconds imagining Jonny with glasses and then in a skin-tight bodysuit with a flowing cape. It’s a pretty nice image until it transforms into Jonny in a Batman costume and, well, now his dick is twitching. Shit.</p><p>Patrick clears his throat and begins walking down the hallway again. “I’m fine.”</p><p>“What’s ‘fine’ mean?” Jonny says, catching up to Patrick in two big strides. “Kaner, you collapsed.”</p><p>“He just knocked the wind out of me and I lost my balance. I’m good, I swear. Don’t…”</p><p>Jonny’s eyebrows rise. “Don’t?”</p><p>“We need you out there. You can’t go getting yourself fucking hurt for what? What even was the point?”</p><p>It’s not entirely true. Yes, the team does need Jonny, but Patrick can’t explain the hideous dread he felt seeing Neal’s fist crunch into Jonny’s head, seeing the bruises bloom across Jonny’s face now, because he does need -</p><p>He shuts the thought out. </p><p>
  <i>Don’t be that guy.</i>
</p><p>It’s the team. Jonny’s the captain. They all need him. They all want him to be safe and stay healthy.</p><p>Patrick shakes himself out of it and looks up to see Jonny’s deeply knitted brow and exaggerated frown. </p><p>“Don’t tell me to stand back and watch someone come at you and not do anything,” Jonny bites out. “I heard him taunting you all through the second period, like he isn’t half the player you are. Calling you names, pushing you around because he’s bigger and he thinks he can get away with it. He can’t. Fuck him.”</p><p>Jonny has stepped closer and closer as he spoke until their shoulders are pressed together as they walk.</p><p>Patrick leans into him a little. “Well, I’m used to it.”</p><p>“It’s not okay,” Jonny says. He sounds vehement. It warms Patrick’s entire center, makes his cheeks feel hot.</p><p>They step out into the chilly Chicago night and head toward the row of cars where they parked not too far from each other. “Maybe. But you can’t fight everyone.”</p><p>“I can try,” Jonny says. Stubborn as hell.</p><p>Patrick laughs. “God, you’re a fucking psycho. Should probably let me drive you home. Wouldn’t want you getting road rage and beating up a random Chicago civilian.”</p><p>Jonny flashes him a fake smile, says, “Hilarious,” but lets himself be pulled by the hand to Patrick’s Hummer. </p><p>A short drive later, they’re at Patrick’s condo, Jonny grumbling about needing to eat and not having anything comfortable to change into. Patrick rolls his eyes, pushes him in the direction of the living room and goes to order food from one of the few places still open for delivery at this hour. He finds a pair of blue Nike shorts Jonny left the last time he was over and grabs one of his own older, worn out and loose T-shirts, throwing the clothes and an ice pack at Jonny as he settles on the couch next to Patrick. </p><p>They watch a mindless episode of ESPN Tonight until Jonny grunts an annoyed mumble and turns the channel to a documentary about wolves on the Discovery channel. The narrator is explaining how the alpha of the pack watches over his omega brother when the food arrives. Jonny pops two pain pills before he digs into his Beef Bulgogi and white rice. By the time the documentary is wrapping up, both of their plates are empty and Jonny’s restless, messing on his phone, shifting in his seat, twitchy in a way he usually isn’t.</p><p>Patrick stands and pulls him up from the couch without saying a word, drawing him to the bedroom. He strips Jonny methodically and then himself, pulls the covers down on his bed and lies down. He scoots to the middle of his bed and spreads his legs, opens his arms, and waits.</p><p>Maybe Jonny stares at him for a moment because he doesn’t know what Patrick wants, or maybe it’s because he just likes to look, Patrick isn’t sure. He wiggles his fingers for Jonny and Jonny finally comes, moving between Patrick’s legs and leaning down onto him, aligning their cocks with Jonny’s big dick covering his own. </p><p>“Stop thinking,” Patrick whispers and kisses him slow and dirty as they both begin moving. They rub their cocks together just like that until they both go off, slick and sticky, stuck as one in too many ways to count. Soon after Jonny falls asleep with his head pressed to Patrick’s chest as Patrick’s arm goes numb underneath him. Worth it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2011</b>
</p>
<p>They spend almost two weeks on the road in February before finally traveling back to Chicago for a few days’ rest. The guys with families stay home, but the rest of the team plans an outing to do some bouldering, some drinking, and possibly a little off diet eating - not in that order.</p>
<p>An hour before everyone is supposed to meet up, Patrick texts Jonny about his plans.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> I think Hammer said he wanted to try Brooklyn Boulders today. Some of the boys are meeting up there around one. Wanna drive over together? We can get dinner after?</i>
</p>
<p><i><b>Jonny:</b> Can’t.</i> </p>
<p><i><b>Patrick:</b> Why not?</i> </p>
<p><i><b>Jonny:</b> Picking Dan up from the airport at two.</i> </p>
<p>He tries to think through all of the Dans he knows and place them. He comes up with a few, but none that would currently need picking up from the airport.</p>
<p><i><b>Patrick:</b> Who’s Dan?</i> </p>
<p><i><b>Jonny:</b> You know Dan. My best friend from back home?</i>  </p>
<p><i><b>Patrick:</b> Gotcha.</i> </p>
<p><i><b>Jonny:</b> Have fun rock climbing! Take a picture for me when Seabs falls on his ass.</i> </p>
<p><i> It’s bouldering, jackass.</i>  Or is it boulder climbing? He doesn’t type that. Partly because he isn’t sure of the distinction. Instead he stares at his phone for several long minutes and tries to decide on an appropriate response.</p>
<p><i><b>Patrick:</b> Sure.</i> </p>
<p>He doesn’t receive another text in return.</p>
<p>Instead he rides with Sharpy and Duncs to Brooklyn Boulders and doesn’t check his phone, not even once.</p>
<p>“Why do you keep checking your phone?” Sharpy says as they’re walking into the building.</p>
<p>Patrick shoves the dumb thing back into his pocket. “I’m not.”</p>
<p>“You are. You’ve checked it like ten times since I’ve picked you up. Waiting on some hot chick to call you back? One little hot chick?” </p>
<p>“Oh my god,” Patrick groans. “Will you let that fucking go already?”</p>
<p>Sharpy grins evilly. “No, it’s funny.”</p>
<p>“It’s not.”</p>
<p>“It’s kinda funny,” Duncs pipes up from the backseat. Patrick didn’t even know he was listening. He hasn’t looked up from whatever ebook he’s been reading since he got into Sharpy’s car. Patrick had asked him what it was about and all he’d gotten in return was a curt, “Murder.”</p>
<p>“You weren’t even there for the conversation,” Patrick says. He’s refusing to let himself sound annoyed. These two are like sharks in the water the second you show any heightened emotion. “How do you know what we’re talking about?”</p>
<p>Duncs is still staring at his phone as Sharpy pulls into a spot in the parking garage across the street from Brooklyn Boulder. “Sharpy told me.”</p>
<p>Patrick flicks his eyes over to Sharpy, who’s doing a fine job of looking everywhere but at Patrick as he turns off the car and gets out. </p>
<p>“You suck,” Patrick tells him, and takes off ahead of them. </p>
<p>Riding the elevator down to the ground floor alone, Patrick crosses the street, and walks into the building to see Seabs, Leddy, Hammer, and Smitty have already arrived. He walks up to the welcome counter and waits for the clerk to finish helping the person in front of him.</p>
<p>“So not a hot chick on the phone,” Sharpy says, from behind him. He’s relentless. “Check. Then who? Jonny?”</p>
<p>Patrick knows this would be the prime time to shut down Sharpy’s path of thinking and redirect him. One could argue there’s never been a better moment. It’s unfortunate, then, that Patrick’s brain goes completely blank.</p>
<p>He tries to think. </p>
<p>Blank…</p>
<p>Still blank…</p>
<p>Extremely fucking blank.</p>
<p>Thankfully the clerk finishes with her previous customer and smiles at Patrick, waiting for him to step up. </p>
<p>“Anyway,” Patrick says to Sharpy, coughing. “I’m going to go get my gear or whatever you have to do.”</p>
<p>He’s set up with a pair of climbing shoes that are surprisingly tight, and a chalk bag, which he has no earthly idea what to do with, and then meets up with the rest of his group as they listen to their assigned guide for the afternoon. Antonio has very straight teeth and very shiny hair, and he explains safety tips, rules, regulations, and the basic techniques for beginners with an enthusiastic smile on his face the entire time. </p>
<p>The first demonstration they’re shown explains how to complete a full route called a “problem.” Antonio works with a few of the guys to get them started, standing off to the side and saying words of encouragement as everyone else begins scaling the low wall right off the bat. After they’re mostly left to their own devices to climb, or fall. It’s a good workout as far as strength training goes, and Patrick’s arms are so worn out following the first hour they feel heavy and weighed down. </p>
<p>He doesn’t think about what Jonny and Dan are doing the entire time he’s beating Hammer’s ass to the top of the problem. Not even once.</p>
<p>When he checks his phone two hours later, Jonny still hasn’t replied.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“Hi, Patrick.”</p>
<p>It’s not the unfamiliar voice that startles Patrick when he walks into the family room  at the UC after the Hawks have just lost three to four to Columbus. He’s not in the best mood, and he knows Dad is going to give him grief about missing that one-timer in the third that could’ve tied things up. He’s hungry, and he wants to go to sleep, but someone is saying his name. No, it’s not the voice so much as it’s Dan being in the family room at all.</p>
<p>He’s not family. He’s a friend. He should probably wait out in the lobby.</p>
<p>“Oh, uh, hey,” Patrick says and sticks his hand out.</p>
<p>Dan smiles at it, like he wasn’t expecting this kind of reception, and takes Patrick’s hand in a firm shake. Patrick makes it firmer, twisting Dan’s hand just so until it’s beneath his own, then he swiftly lets it go.</p>
<p>“How have you been?” Dan asks. He’s wearing a Hawks jersey with a heavy gray coat over it. Patrick wouldn’t have even noticed, but he turns a few inches to the left and the white C half covered by Dan’s jacket catches his attention.</p>
<p>Who the fuck even wears jerseys to games? Well, besides fans, and the players. But Dan isn’t even a Hawks fan. He’s a Jets fan and therefore a traitor.</p>
<p>“I’ve been good. Pretty good,” Patrick says, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Just won the Cup not too long ago so I can’t complain.” Take that, traitor. “How about you?”</p>
<p>Dan smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “I watched all of the Hawks playoff games. You were lights out, man! Really good. I kept telling Jon he needs to pass you the puck, because you sure know how to put it away.” He scratches at the top of his head when he’s finished speaking like he’s embarrassed by how much he’s just said. He laughs and shakes his head. “But, um, as for me, I graduated Uni last spring with a degree in criminology. Taking a year off to travel for a bit while I figure out what’s next.” </p>
<p>“That’s great,” Patrick nods, trying to come up with something congenial to say. “Sounds like a good plan. Don’t want to jump into anything too fast.”</p>
<p>“That’s what I said!” Dan says, his smile expanding, stretching wide over his face. “But Jon thinks I should form a plan first. To be prepared.”</p>
<p>Patrick snorts. “Jonny doesn’t know anything.”</p>
<p>“What don’t I know?” Jonny asks from behind Patrick and in the next second Patrick feels an arm wrap around his shoulders as Jonny’s other arm goes around Dan. “Hey boys!”</p>
<p>He pulls them both tighter in until it’s a little uncomfortable, but he’s grinning in a way he doesn’t usually after a loss, and Patrick can’t quite make himself step away. Dan’s eyes seem even brighter this close up, like maybe they’re fucking twinkling or some shit as they look at Jonny. Tone it down, dude.</p>
<p>“I was telling Patrick about my plans to do nothing for the next year and how you don’t like it.” Dan says, and rolls his eyes, but he’s still smiling. </p>
<p>Jonny smiles back. There’s entirely too much fucking smiling. It must stop.</p>
<p>“Call him Kaner,” Jonny says, ruffling Patrick’s hair. It gives Patrick an excuse to recoil and move out from under his arm. Everyone calls him Kaner but his family for the most part. There’s zero reason Jonny’s offer should rankle this much. “And I know plenty.” </p>
<p>“You sure about that?” Patrick challenges.</p>
<p>Jonny turns to him, cocky. “Pretty sure. I have a Stanley Cup ring to prove it.”</p>
<p>“Well, if that’s all it takes to know stuff then arguably I know more.”</p>
<p>“How do you figure that?” Jonny asks. He still has his arm around Dan. Dan, who’s just standing there politely watching them talk. Not even interrupting or anything. What the fuck is his deal?</p>
<p>“He scored the Stanley Cup overtime goal,” Dan says, <i>interrupting</i>. How fucking rude can a person be, like - wait. </p>
<p>What?</p>
<p>Dan’s words sink in.</p>
<p>“Yeah, that,” Patrick mumbles.</p>
<p>“Whose side are you on here?” Jonny laughs, drawing his arm up around Dan’s neck to pull him in closer and give him a noogie until they’re both laughing and pushing at each other. </p>
<p>How adorable. Patrick wants to puke.</p>
<p>“We’re gonna go catch a bite to eat,” Jonny says once he and Dan have calmed down. “You wanna come?”</p>
<p>Patrick’s never been happier to have his parents as an excuse to get out of doing something with Jonny. He shakes his head, trying to appear apologetic. “My parents are waiting for me. Maybe next time,” he says. “See you guys later.” </p>
<p>He leaves no room for more conversation as he steps away, letting out a long breath while he exits.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>For the next week everywhere Jonny goes, Dan follows. During practice he’s in the stands, during games he’s near the glass, he comes along when the team goes out to eat, or to a bar, or even when it’s just Jonny hanging out at his place. To be fair, Patrick knows he’s staying at Jonny’s condo for his visit and not at a hotel. Regardless, he doesn’t need to be around every single second. </p>
<p>Chicago is one of the biggest cities in America and offers a lot more to do than Manitoba, Loserpeg. Dan could go sightseeing, go to a museum, take a guided tour, visit a landmark, take a walk to the pier and jump off? The options are endless.  </p>
<p>On a rare free Friday, the team decides to go out and get drinks at Mahoney’s before clubbing. Patrick pre-games at Bolly’s place, chugging down a few Bud Lights before they get to the bar and he can buy vodka shots. The walk from the parking garage to the bar is fucking freezing, and it takes at least two more drinks before he’s buzzed enough to not regret leaving his winter jacket behind in the car. </p>
<p>His body is finally warming up when Jonny walks in with Dan. </p>
<p>“Oh, great,” Patrick says, mostly to himself. “Can’t wait to hear more amazing stories about growing up on pond hockey and eating Timmy’s and shitting out maple syrup.”</p>
<p>“Feeling left out, Kaner?” Seabs jokes. Sharpy’s sitting right beside him, watching Patrick carefully. </p>
<p>“No,” Patrick lies. </p>
<p>“There’s a girl over by the bar who’s been eyeing you for the last twenty minutes. Maybe you should go talk to her.” Seabs points to a pretty blonde with straight, shoulder-length hair, a white, low-cut sweater, and tight jeans. She blushes when Patrick looks in her direction.</p>
<p>“Maybe I will,” Patrick says, stands, and sways forward. He might be drunk. </p>
<p>On his way to White Sweater, he’s stopped by Jonny, who tugs on the back of his shirt.</p>
<p>“Hey, Peeks.” He looks cheerful. And weirdly tan for the middle of February. Patrick stares at the golden length of his neck for a second. Okay, two seconds.</p>
<p>“What’s up?” Patrick says. He looks around for Dan and finds him sitting with Hammer and Crow, the three of them talking animatedly. Apparently everyone loves Dan now. <i>Great.</i></p>
<p>“Danny’s leaving early Sunday. You wanna come over after the game? Before?”</p>
<p>That’s another thing! All week, it’s been ‘Danny this’ and ‘Danny that’, and ‘Danny, remember that time when we were kids…’ Patrick could go the rest of his life never hearing that name, or Paint It Black, ever again. Is the dude still here? Why hasn’t he already left? Patrick’s tired.</p>
<p>“Peeks?” Jonny asks. He looks expectant and Patrick wants to be irritated, but he can’t be. It’s not as if Jonny’s ignored him all week in favor of Dan. Quite the contrary, he’s asked Patrick several times to hang out with them, at his place or while they went for food or to a movie, and even to some country music concert Patrick would never be caught dead at. He's made a dozen excuses and he’s not even sure why. He just. He couldn’t sit there and watch them go on about their childhoods like it was the best of times, and no one else existed. </p>
<p>Patrick existed. He was there too. He’s been here the whole time.</p>
<p>“Not gonna be busy?” Patrick asks. He’s staring down at his hands.</p>
<p>Jonny cocks his head to the side. “You were the one who was busy all week. Not me.” He smiles, just a small thing, but it’s heated in a way Patrick has never seen directed at Dan. The fondness Jonny shows Dan, the same fondness that claws at Patrick’s chest to witness it, doesn’t ever quite tip over into anything more.</p>
<p>“I’m not busy Sunday,” he says.</p>
<p>Jonny beams. “Good. I’ll drive us to the UC then.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods and watches Jonny head off to the bar to order a drink. He stands in place for a minute trying to remember what he was going to do and then bypasses White Sweater for the bathroom instead. The bathroom smells foul, the floor is sticky, and there are no paper towels for Patrick to dry his hands with, but when he exits to return to his table, he feels lighter than he has in days.</p>
<p>Until a half hour later, and another drink down, when Patrick has to watch Jonny and Dan leave the bar together.</p>
<p>“Where are they going?” Patrick asks. “They just got here. Who leaves first after showing up late? It’s just rude!”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Sharpy says; he’s alone now. Patrick forgot he was sitting there for a moment. Seabs isn’t around, but Patrick didn’t notice when he wandered off.</p>
<p>Patrick frowns down at his half empty cranberry vodka. “They’re weird.”</p>
<p>“What do you mean?”</p>
<p>He waves his hands around like that explains his thoughts. When he looks to Sharpy, all he receives in return are two raised eyebrows and a waiting pause.</p>
<p>Patrick sighs. “When they’re together, they’re always just, like, in each other’s faces and laughing. Laughing like constantly. And they have five thousand inside jokes. Who has that many inside jokes? It’s like they’re speaking a foreign language. And then all the French! They speak so much French. Why? Are you hiding something? Tell me!”</p>
<p>Sharpy rolls his eyes. “Sounds like what friends do, Kaner.”</p>
<p>“Friends, but weirder,” Patrick says, shoving a finger in his face.</p>
<p>Flicking his fingers away, Sharpy takes a sip of his fancy IPA, the bottle still sweating at the bottom.</p>
<p>“Nah, they seem pretty normal. You and Tazer though…”</p>
<p>Patrick turns in his chair, then turns back again, not knowing where to look. “What? No. We’re fine.”</p>
<p>“Sure,” Sharpy says. He sounds disbelieving.</p>
<p>“We’re normal.”</p>
<p>“Mmmkay.”</p>
<p>“We <i>are</i>!” Patrick shouts and then folds in on himself when he notices he’s caught the attention of a few people sitting nearby.</p>
<p>Neither of them speak for a few minutes, Sharpy seemingly waiting until a new song comes on and people return to their own conversations. </p>
<p>“Okay,” he says, and leans in, elbows on the table top. “So tell me something…”</p>
<p>A wave of terror washes over Patrick before he’s even sure what’s coming. His stomach feels like it’s hovering over an empty hole a thousand feet long.</p>
<p>He doesn’t want to ask, but he can’t let the question hang there forever. “What?”</p>
<p>Sharpy clasps his hands together. “How long have you and Jonny been fucking?”</p>
<p><i>Who me?</i> he thinks. <i>With Jonny? Haha! I would never sleep with someone like him. He’s ugly, technically speaking. And too tall, like a weird tall person. And I would never. I can’t believe you, of all people, would accuse me. Me! I am shocked. And dismayed! And I’m leaving this conversation. Goodbye!</i></p>
<p>Snapping back into the moment Patrick realizes he’s trying to school his face into something other than slack-jawed horror.</p>
<p>“We’re not,” he forces himself to say calmly. </p>
<p>It’s fine. Everything is fine. </p>
<p>“Then why were you leaving his place the other morning?” Sharpy asks, squinting at him.</p>
<p>Patrick’s eyes flick up. “What morning? When? How’d you see that? What the fuck?!” The words come tumbling out of his mouth so fast he chokes on the end of his last sentence. </p>
<p>And then he watches in frightened astonishment as a Cheshire Cat grin curves the corners of Sharpy’s mouth. “I didn’t. I was baiting you to see if you’d fold and you did.”  He slaps his hands together triumphantly. “I knew it!”</p>
<p>Patrick’s stomach drops down into the abyss.</p>
<p>“Oh god. Oh fuck,” he whispers. </p>
<p>Sharpy’s smile falters. “Kaner.”</p>
<p>He knows. He knows and he’ll tell and Patrick will be that guy.</p>
<p>
  <i>Don’t be that guy.</i>
</p>
<p>He can’t be that guy.</p>
<p>Abruptly Patrick stands, almost knocking all of the glasses on the table over. “I have to go.”</p>
<p>“Whoa, hey.” Sharpy stands with him, eyes wide and confused as Patrick scrambles to move away from the table and redirect himself on the path to the front door.</p>
<p>“I need to go right now.” He starts walking. If he’s walking, he doesn’t have to think. He doesn’t have to see the look on Sharpy’s face. He doesn’t have to do anything but move one foot in front of the other with the ultimate goal of getting home, where it’s safe.</p>
<p>“Slow down,” Sharpy says, his hand reaching out for Patrick’s arm. “It’s okay.”</p>
<p>Patrick evades him, shifting away, and continuing on until they’re outside. There’s people standing around smoking. He keeps moving down the sidewalk, unsure of where he’s going, only knowing he has to be somewhere else, not here. Sharpy rushes up beside him and then tries to block him from going forward. <br/>“Hey, it’s okay.”</p>
<p>“It’s not okay. Get out of the way.”</p>
<p>“Why isn’t it okay?”</p>
<p>“Move, Sharpy,” Patrick grits out, jaw grinding.</p>
<p>Sharpy doesn’t move. “Will you listen to me for a minute before you try to run away and go freak out?” He grabs both of Patrick’s shoulder blades and looks at him so gravely Patrick shudders to a standstill. “I don’t care. Kaner, I <i>don’t</i> care. If you wanna date Jonny, it’s fine with me. I just thought you’d tell me.”</p>
<p>There’s a puddle to the side of the sidewalk about the size of a shinpad. Patrick imagines it’s a pool, no, it’s the ocean, and it’s expanding and opening and soon it’ll be big enough to swallow him whole. “Dating?” he says, staring at the puddle. “What? We’re not - I’m not.” He takes a breath. “It’s not like that. I wouldn’t do that.”</p>
<p>“Alright,” Sharpy says quietly.</p>
<p>“It’s just sex. Friends with benefits or whatever. It’s nothing. It’s not going to affect the team.”</p>
<p>It’s not. It hasn’t. Patrick won’t let it. Jonny wouldn't even want - there’s not a chance.</p>
<p>“First of all, ew,” Sharpy laughs. “Second of all I don’t give a shit about that right now.” He pulls Patrick into a tight, furious hug. “Look, I’m sorry I pushed. It’s not a big deal. You two can do whatever you want as long as you’re having a good time, and he’s treating you right.”</p>
<p>It’s hard to think. Patrick leaves his arms at his sides, unable to lift them. He couldn’t stay still and now he can’t move.</p>
<p>“Are you going to tell?” Patrick mumbles.</p>
<p>“Tell who?”</p>
<p>It takes Patrick three tries to get the words out. “Anyone? Everyone?”</p>
<p>“I...no. I won’t tell anyone.” Patrick can feel his hands trembling. “Hey, I won’t,” Sharpy says and hugs him harder.</p>
<p>Patrick nods, feeling disconnected as he lets a shaky breath free. He rests his head on Sharpy’s shoulder and tries to process everything that just happened. It’s too much. For right now, he knows Sharpy isn’t going to tell anyone or shut Patrick out. </p>
<p>It’s enough. </p>
<p>Patrick steps back and Sharpy pats his arm twice. </p>
<p>“Come on, bud. I’ll take you home.”</p>
<p>They walk toward the parking garage together.</p>
<p>“Where’s your jacket?”</p>
<p>“Left it in Bolly’s car,” Patrick says. </p>
<p>“Dumbass,” Sharpy murmurs, glancing at Patrick out of the corner of his eye. He makes a face at Patrick until he grins.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“Is your wrist still bothering you?” Dad asks.</p>
<p>Patrick’s on the highway driving toward O’Hare airport for the annual Blackhawks Fathers Trip as he tries to prepare himself for the next five days spent with his dad close by. Sharpy’s words still hang heavy in the back of his head even as Patrick refuses not to think about them.</p>
<p>If he said he won’t tell then he won’t tell.</p>
<p>It’s fine.</p>
<p>It’s probably fine.</p>
<p>“A little,” Patrick says. He wants to turn some music on for a distraction, but Dad usually only listens to sports or talk radio and Patrick cannot handle NPR right now.</p>
<p>“Have you made an appointment with Dr. Terry?’</p>
<p>“Not yet.”</p>
<p>Narrowed eyes turn on him. “Why not?”</p>
<p>Patrick swallows the sigh he desperately wants to let out. The last thing he wants to do before the beginning of this trip is get into an argument. “I don’t really have to set up an appointment. I can see him whenever.”</p>
<p>“Then what’s your excuse for not going sooner?” Dad asks. He’s not looking at his phone anymore, and his reading glasses have been folded and put away, indicating his focus is now fully shifted. Awesome.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Patrick says, watching the road go by. “Was hoping it’d go away.”</p>
<p>A pause lingers between them, stilted and silent. It goes on long enough that Patrick’s mind drifts to other thoughts, the upcoming game, the texts he needs to respond to, the missed call from Jonny, the conversation with Sharpy - no, not thinking about that - the low level ache in his wrist when he turns the wheel - nope, not going there either - the seafood dinner they’ll have in Miami, butter covered lobster and shrimp scampi, fuck yeah.</p>
<p>“I’m not trying to give you a hard time, son,” Dad says when they’re a mile out from O’Hare. “I’m just worried. If you push it too long it could get to a point where it’s not fixable. You know?”</p>
<p>“I know,” Patrick murmurs. He knows better than anyone.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>After getting through the airport terminal and outside onto the runway, near the Hawks’ private jet, Patrick loses his dad amongst all the other dads as they yuck it up together. They’ll spend the whole flight telling old stories of their own hockey days, discussing all of the “fancy new gear these kids have now” and how, when they used to play, it was with barely any pads and hand-me-down skates.</p>
<p>Patrick’s heard it a hundred times before. He doesn’t need to hear it again.</p>
<p>If he can get a seat toward the back end of the plane maybe he can catch a little cat nap before they land. He hasn’t been sleeping well since…</p>
<p>Anyway. The idea is appealing.</p>
<p>The Hawks PR team and photographer are running around getting pictures before the team takes off and Patrick watches them scramble around the tarmac for a minute; the sky above is blue and clear, the wind cool, but not piercing, and the warmth of the sun feels nice on his face.</p>
<p>“Hey kiddo!” a voice says from behind him and Patrick turns to see Bryan Toews. “How’ve you been?”</p>
<p>Already Patrick feels himself smiling, and not in a way that’s full of forced politeness as he does with some of the other dads. It never is forced with Bryan. He’s always felt like one of the easiest parents to speak to, ever since Patrick was a kid. The feeling reminds him of Jonny. “Pretty good. Can’t complain.”</p>
<p>Bryan adjusts the bag on his shoulder as they walk. “I didn’t get to tell you this during all of the hubbub during the Cup win, but I was really impressed with your overtime goal. You played so well that night - the whole playoffs.”</p>
<p>Patrick's face heats. “Wasn’t just me. I was surrounded by a lot of great players.”</p>
<p>“Jon kept telling me all summer, ‘Dad, it should’ve been Kaner who won the Conn Smythe. Not me.’ He’s so proud of you. We all are.”</p>
<p>Patrick’s step stutters and his stomach swoops. He can’t believe Jonny said that to his dad. Why would he say that to his dad?</p>
<p>Clearly his dick is too big to make up for his shrunken brain. He’s fucking ridiculous.</p>
<p>“Jonny’s too modest,” Patrick says. “He absolutely deserved it.”</p>
<p>Bryan smiles, causing the skin around his eyes to crinkle. He has the kindest eyes. “Not sure you’ll get him to agree there.”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs. “Yeah, well, he’s stubborn all the time, not just on the ice.”</p>
<p>“Bullheaded, as his mom would say,” Bryan says with a chuckle.</p>
<p>“That too.”</p>
<p>“What are you two laughing about?” Jonny bursts in between them. Patrick didn’t even hear him walking up. </p>
<p>“You,” he says and hopes his cheeks aren’t still red.</p>
<p>Jonny smirks. “I am pretty funny.”</p>
<p>“I take back the modest comment,” Patrick tells Bryan and watches him crack up as Jonny cocks his head to the side like a confused puppy.</p>
<p>“Was he complimenting me while I wasn’t around to hear it?” Jonny asks, suspicious. He tugs Patrick under his arm. “What’d you say?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Nothing.”</p>
<p>If Patrick tells him the truth, Jonny will be endlessly smug for the next three hours. He won’t let Patrick sleep or even get a word in edgewise. This cannot happen. Patrick  looks to Bryan pleadingly, sending out a silent prayer. For one brief second Patrick’s afraid Bryan will throw him under the bus and then he says, “I’m old. I can’t remember.”</p>
<p>He shoots Patrick a quick wink.</p>
<p>Jonny rolls his eyes. “Yeah, sure. You’re a regular geezer, pops.”</p>
<p>Bryan pats at Jonny’s head placatingly. “Do you and Pat Sr. want to tee-up with the Toews boys tomorrow?” he asks Patrick. </p>
<p>“Of course he does,” Jonny answers before Patrick can get a word out, palm moving to cup around Patrick’s shoulder cap. He squeezes lightly once and then rubs his thumb up and down, distractingly. Even without the encouragement, Jonny’s a bulldozer.</p>
<p>“Only if I get to be on your dad’s team,” Patrick tells Jonny.</p>
<p>It’s fun to watch the way Jonny’s face screws up as Bryan laughs in the background, and how Jonny can’t quite stop himself from smiling when he sees Patrick giggling too.</p>
<p>“Yuck it up you two, but I’m schooling you both tomorrow on the links. And that’s a promise. Now get on the plane.”</p>
<p>He pulls Patrick to the foot of the stairs and then stands back to let Patrick go up first. Kopes, Leddy, and Bicks are already on board, a few dads grouped together with Patrick’s own father near a collection of seats with a table in the middle. Q and Kitchen are in their usual corner, notebooks and an Apple tablet between them as they talk. The back of the plane is empty for the moment and Patrick has his sights set on one of the back row seats when he’s stopped by Seabs. They talk a bit about the previous game and if Patrick brought the new clubs he was talking about buying for the trip.</p>
<p>By the time they’re done chatting the rest of the plane is full, and the pilot mentions over the intercom they’ll be taking off in five minutes. As Patrick makes his way to the back row, he sees his dad look at him in between his conversation with Dave Keith. </p>
<p>It’s a casual, harmless look, probably unassuming in nature. He’s not trying to get Patrick’s attention or call Patrick to him, but it reminds Patrick he’s there all the same, present on this plane and nearby. He’d see if Patrick sat next to Jonny in the open seat in the back row. He might not care, but he’d notice, and the next time it happened, the next time Patrick was beside Jonny more than anyone else, any other teammate, he might pick up on it like Sharpy did.</p>
<p>And then he’d know too.</p>
<p>Patrick tries to remember how to breathe for a minute because his brain has suddenly stopped working. He tries to think and it’s like a blank computer screen with a flashing keystroke. </p>
<p>Nothing. Empty.</p>
<p>“Kaner, let’s gooo,” Bolly says, urging him to move forward and he realizes, belatedly, he was holding up traffic in the aisle.</p>
<p>Walking to the back of the plane Patrick comes near Jonny’s seat and sees from the corner of his eye Jonny glance up at him expectantly, warmly. He’s waiting for Patrick to ask for his usual window seat as Jonny often takes the aisle. He’ll stand and let Patrick in and they’ll fly to Miami with Patrick passed out beside him, their legs pressed together. That’s the way it’s gone for most of the flights this year. </p>
<p>They don’t always sit near one another. In the past they’d be apart more often than together. He isn’t sure when exactly the shift occurred, only now that it has it’s odd to not take the seat next to Jonny, to feel his body heat so close or listen to the random thoughts Jonny refuses to keep inside his head.</p>
<p>It shouldn’t matter where Patrick sits, but he takes the window seat across the aisle from Jonny and tucks himself against the wall.</p>
<p>He looks over at Jonny only once to see his confused expression and then closes his eyes.</p>
<p>He doesn’t sleep.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Once the plane lands and they get settled in the hotel, half the dads want steak for dinner and the other half want seafood. The two groups break up and go off to eat, with Patrick and his father in the half going for steaks. He doesn’t see Jonny again until they’re preparing for bed hours later.</p>
<p>“Have a good dinner?” Jonny asks. He’s sitting up in bed in just his boxers, the sheets and covers pulled back to show the long line of his legs and his muscular bare thighs.</p>
<p>In the privacy of their room Patrick lets himself subtly stare at Jonny’s body for a few minutes as he gets undressed and slips on his pajamas.</p>
<p>Jonny is unfairly fucking hot and Patrick wants to climb all over him. He wants Jonny to pin him to the bed and cover him with every inch of that big body. He wants it so much and yet - no. He didn’t catch what room his dad was assigned to and what if it’s across the hall? What if his dad walks by or shows up unannounced and knocks on their door. What if he hears?</p>
<p>Patrick lets out a sigh and gets into his own bed. “It was okay. Steak was a little overdone. How was the seafood?”</p>
<p>Jonny presses his lips together as he pulls the covers up over himself. He picks his phone up off the side table and stares down at the screen, closing off. “It was great. Lobster was fantastic.”</p>
<p>“Nice,” Patrick murmurs.</p>
<p>Jonny hums.</p>
<p>They don’t talk for the rest of the night.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The next day, Patrick’s in the middle of concocting a convincing argument about why they should group up with Seabs and Duncs and their fathers instead of with Jonny and Bryan when he sees Dad and Bryan chatting in the hotel lobby as he arrives.</p>
<p>“We made an executive decision,” Dad says, smiling.</p>
<p>Bryan’s smiling too.</p>
<p>“Oh yeah?” Patrick asks, feeling a little ill. “What’s that?”</p>
<p>“Rookies vs. the vets and today, Buzz, you and Jonathan will be the rookies again.”</p>
<p>“You can’t steal my partner,” Patrick tries, forcing out a short laugh as he gestures to Bryan. “I called him yesterday.”</p>
<p>Dad’s grin deepens. “Welp, too bad. Just watch out for those bogeys.”</p>
<p>They pile into the bus driving them to the Country Club, Jonny showing up at the last minute and taking a seat up at the front near Soupy. Patrick spends most of the drive and prep at the club dreading how the next few hours will go. </p>
<p>The first six holes are mostly warm up, or so Dad says, as he gets three birdies, two pars, and one eagle. Bryan fairs a little better, and Patrick a bit better than him with four birdies and two eagles. Jonny jumps out of the gate with an almost perfect score, zeroed in like he’s ready for a playoff game. He chats and jokes around in between his turns, even letting their caddy, Emily, take a selfie with him and giving her an autograph on the back of an unused score sheet. But when it’s his turn, he’s all business, swinging his club around with deadly precision.</p>
<p>It’s getting Patrick frustratingly hot.</p>
<p>“Good shot,” he tells Jonny on the twelfth hole after he scores yet another albatross. Jesus Christ. Their dads are still on the last hole, trying to catch up.</p>
<p>He might have a boner. He definitely has at least half a stiffy, but he isn’t sure if it’s enough to be obvious to everyone else. He looks down and checks: no, all good, thank fuck.</p>
<p>The corner of Jonny’s mouth curves. “You like that?” </p>
<p>
  <i>“You like that, baby?” Jonny says, his cock so deep inside Patrick he can’t do anything else but clench down and try not to sob.</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick clears his throat, shaking the memory from his head. “I, um. Yeah, it was alright. Nice control. You know?”</p>
<p>Jonny leans in, his hand spreading out over the expanse of Patrick’s lower back. He says quietly, “I can do it again, if you want. I have excellent control.”</p>
<p>Is this motherfucker inside his head? Patrick bites at his bottom lip. “I’m only four-under. You haven’t won yet, Toews.”</p>
<p>“Yet,” Jonny says, like it’s a given.</p>
<p>Patrick’s about to scoff and tell him to suck it when he hears their dads’ golf cart pull up behind them and shifts three, four, five feet away.</p>
<p>The distance between them feels as huge as a gulf in size and when Jonny gives him a wary look and steps closer, Patrick takes another step back, whispers, “Don’t.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” Jonny shrugs cooly, then grips his club in his opposite hand as he walks away.</p>
<p>For the rest of the afternoon they don’t talk so much to each other as through each other as they work their way over the course, using their fathers to keep conversation going. At dinner they sit at separate tables, Patrick making sure he doesn’t look in Jonny’s direction even once.</p>
<p>Dad doesn’t seem to know anything is different and that’s good, that’s what Patrick wanted. </p>
<p>They’re just buddies - him and Jonny. They don’t need to spend all of their time together. Jonny didn’t miss him when Dan was around, this isn’t any different.</p>
<p>It’s not.</p>
<p>It can’t be.</p>
<p>At night Jonny doesn’t come back to the room until Patrick is already asleep with the lights turned off. He hears Jonny walk in, silently undress, then get in bed, and he wants to ask, <i>Where were you?</i>, but it’s not any of his business, and he doesn’t.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The following day is filled with practice in the morning, meetings in the afternoon, and a game in the evening. They lose against the Panthers and then fly out to Tampa to play a day game against the Lightning that they also lose. For dinner they eat more seafood, rich buttery lobster with a side of shrimp scampi, and perfectly cooked grilled scallops. Afterwards they’re taken to the Riverwalk where Dad spends most of his time retelling stories of Patrick’s youth hockey days to anyone who will listen, all the traveling they did, all of the many skates blades that needed replacing, and how for their wedding anniversary Patrick bought him and Mom a vacation to the Bahamas.</p>
<p>Conversation blends together until Patrick isn’t so much listening as he is zoning out and taking in the sights as they all stroll along the riverfront, the palm trees overhead swaying gently in the humid breeze, and the pink, purple, and blue lights shining brightly on the Kennedy Boulevard bridge.</p>
<p>He watches Jonny and Bryan ahead of them, walking. Jonny’s hands are in his pockets and he’s wearing a ridiculous pair of flip flops with a dark blue snapback on his head. His back is so broad from this viewpoint that it takes a while to notice he stands tall at the front of the group, taller than most around him. Patrick hasn’t let himself look much the last few days, not outside of the rink, but no one is paying any attention to him now as they all move forward together. </p>
<p>It’s not hard to imagine the steady way Jonny and Bryan talk to one another. Patrick’s heard them before. They discuss fishing and gardening, cooking and family, in easy exchange, like their entire relationship doesn’t hinge on everything hockey. And even though Jonny missed two shots on goal during the Lightning game, he knows Bryan hasn’t picked at Jonny about it like Patrick’s own father did earlier on their way out to eat.</p>
<p>When they get back to the hotel, Patrick stays up with Dad and a few others, sharing a drink before they call it a night. He sees Bryan sitting with Mike and Phil, and then again as they’re riding the elevator up to the tenth floor.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry we lost today,” Patrick says after the doors ding closed.</p>
<p>Bryan waves him off. “Can’t win ‘em all.”</p>
<p>“Yeah.” Patrick nods. He fiddles with his hands, trying to think of something to say that isn’t stupidly hockey related, or maybe asking him about Jonny.</p>
<p>“You okay, kid?”</p>
<p>Patrick lifts his head to see Bryan watching him with concern. It’s too much after a long day. He tries to choke down the watery words wanting to bubble up from his throat, and blinks the wetness back from his eyes.</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” he says, trying to smile. “I’m all good.”</p>
<p>Bryan steps forward and pulls Patrick into a quick half-hug, cupping the back of Patrick’s head like Jonny will often do.</p>
<p>“I know you and Jon can be hard on yourselves, maybe the hardest. But all you can do is your best sometimes. Try to remember that?” </p>
<p>Patrick can only nod in return.</p>
<p>They say their farewells in the hallway and break off to go to their rooms in opposite directions. Jonny’s in bed watching TV when Patrick walks in. He picks up the remote and turns it off as Patrick’s taking off his tennis shoes. The room is plunged into darkness and Patrick wants to be annoyed, wants to lean into how simple it’d be to turn this raw flimsy ache in his gut into something more solid like anger. Yet he can’t.</p>
<p>“Jonny?” he says into endless quiet.</p>
<p>There’s a slow exhale. “Not tonight, Kaner.”</p>
<p>The sheets rustle and Patrick can make out the shape of Jonny’s big body turning over in bed, turning away from him.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>There’s one last away game on the Fathers Trip in Washington, D.C. that they also lose, only this time in a shootout. The flight back to Chicago feels a lot like going home with their tails between their legs, and no one is happy. It’s a much more somber return overall.</p>
<p>Mom is waiting for them at O’Hare and it’s a good distraction to have her there as a buffer, to receive the gentle hug she gives him when she sees them. Even better to go back to his place and know he won’t have to deal with anyone in his space for the next twenty-four hours as he catches up on all the sleep he missed over the week.</p>
<p>They beat the Sharks six to three the next night and it’s a relief to finally get a win after three losses in a row. It’d be even better if Jonny weren’t ignoring him, but when Patrick tries to talk to him on his way out of the UC, Jonny blows him off again, leaving Patrick standing alone and spinning.</p>
<p>He gets in his car and begins driving home, a heavy need clawing at him. The smart choice would be to go home, take a long hot shower, shake it off, and start tomorrow fresh. Jonny doesn’t want to talk to him, that’s been made abundantly clear. More than likely he doesn’t want to see Patrick either.</p>
<p>It’s fine.</p>
<p>It’s…<i>fuck</i>. It’s not. It’s really not.</p>
<p>Patrick slows at a four way stop and takes a sharp right, backtracking towards Jonny’s condo. Screw the smart choice, Patrick’s never been known for that anyway.</p>
<p>He uses Jonny’s code to park in the garage and get into the elevators to go up to his floor. Then he walks down the hall, knocks on the door, and remembers to finally exhale.</p>
<p>Jonny opens the door halfway, standing in the open space. He’s shirtless and thin-lipped, and he doesn’t say anything when he sees Patrick in front of him.</p>
<p>“Let me in,” Patrick says.</p>
<p>Jonny’s eyes flare at the demand, but he doesn’t budge from his spot. “Why?”</p>
<p>Over Patrick’s dead body are they having this conversation in the hallway of Jonny’s complex. </p>
<p>“Just let me in, okay?” He pushes his way past Jonny, expecting more resistance and surprised to find Jonny steps back and lets their bodies brush together as Patrick makes his way inside. Once the door is shut behind him they stand apart, staring at one another without speaking for an excruciating moment.</p>
<p>The foyer is lit up by the overhead light, but as far as Patrick can see the other rooms are dark, like Jonny was about to go to bed. It’s after eleven, late enough to sleep, not so late that staying up will mess with their schedule. They don’t have another game for three days, and there's nowhere to be tomorrow. It wouldn’t matter if they stayed up a little longer and - shit - he needs to focus.</p>
<p>Jonny’s watching him, guarded, and closed off, his arms crossed over his chest. He isn’t going to let Patrick off easy.</p>
<p>“Look I know you’re mad,” Patrick says, forcing himself to meet Jonny’s eyes. “And I’m sorry.”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t going to say anything to him.” </p>
<p>“I know,” Patrick says, he shuffles a few steps closer to Jonny.</p>
<p>“You didn’t act like it,” Jonny says tightly, unmoving.</p>
<p>“I know!” Patrick admits, a little desperate and helpless. He shuffles even closer until he can pull Jonny’s arms free and press himself close, his forehead resting on Jonny’s collarbone. “I was a dick, like, all week. A huge dick. Not as big as your dick, but still pretty big,” he breathes against Jonny’s skin and feels Jonny jolt with a surprised laugh. “It’s just - it’s not easy for me. My dad isn’t like your dad. I don’t know if he’d…”</p>
<p>He can hear his voice begin to quiver and snaps his mouth shut, closing his eyes and shoving his face to Jonny’s neck. He’s so warm and he smells so good, Patrick wants to disappear inside his skin.</p>
<p>A gentle hand comes up and cups the back of his neck. “It’s okay, Peeks.”</p>
<p>Patrick shudders and wraps himself around Jonny, lets himself breathe in.</p>
<p>“Can I stay over?”</p>
<p>“Of course,” Jonny murmurs into his hair.</p>
<p>By silent agreement they go to Jonny’s room, undress, and get in bed. Patrick finds the lube in its usual location and drops it by Jonny’s hip, straddling Jonny’s waist. He picks the lube back up, opens it, turns Jonny’s hand palm up and dribbles some onto his fingers, then pulls Jonny’s hand backward toward his ass with his good wrist, hoping he gets what Patrick is asking for. He does, fitting his slick fingers to Patrick’s crease and dipping them in slowly. </p>
<p>As soon as those fingers touch Patrick’s hole, he moans, already so turned on at the sight of Jonny naked and growing hard underneath him. Jonny's cock thickens as it lengthens and Patrick gets lost in watching it get fat and big, in remembering how it feels filling him up, rubbing against his insides until all he wants to do is fall apart.</p>
<p>Jonny’s leaking on his own belly by the time Patrick’s up to three fingers thrusting in and out of him, as he grinds down on them. This angle makes it so much better to control where he wants Jonny to move and how, and he feels like an idiot for not asking to try this sooner.</p>
<p>Once he'sufficiently open enough, Jonny holds his cock in place for Patrick to slide smoothly down on. It’s overwhelming in an entirely new way, throbbing, too full, and when he’s taken all of Jonny inside of him, he has to gasp out a broken sob, folding his arms around Jonny’s shoulders. He’s not exactly hiding with his face pressed to Jonny’s neck again, but if he doesn’t have to look at Jonny’s face he can almost think coherently.</p>
<p>He wants to move, but it’s too much too soon. Everything is so tight, so full he might burst apart if he doesn’t take a minute to breathe.</p>
<p>“It’s stupid, but I missed this,” Patrick whispers, lips brushing over Jonny’s skin. He still smells a little of sweat and his woodsy body wash.</p>
<p>Jonny’s left hand slides up his back, fingers trailing over his spine as his right hand goes to Patrick’s hip. “It’s not.”</p>
<p>“I’m stupid.” He doesn’t just mean for this moment or tonight or even this weekend. He’s not sure what he’s trying to say. It’s inexplicable, this intangible want he’s never known how to deal with. It’s easier, quicker, faster to push it down, and down, and down until it’s almost not there, until it’s dust.</p>
<p>If he could only - if he could just - he can’t.</p>
<p>Jonny’s hand moves up to his neck and then into his hair, tangles there. “No. You’re one of the smartest people I know.”</p>
<p>“I ruined the whole trip,” Patrick argues. “I couldn’t concentrate during the games and we lost. We’re barely gonna make the playoffs. I’m letting everyone down.” He tightens his grip around Jonny’s shoulders, tries to get in closer. </p>
<p>“Hey,” Jonny says, tugging on Patrick’s hair softly until he pulls back. “Kiss me.” Patrick presses his lips to Jonny’s automatically, licks over Jonny’s scar and into his mouth, tasting him as much as possible. </p>
<p>“All that shit out there?” Jonny pants. “Doesn’t matter in here. Okay?”</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t think he can turn his brain off long enough to believe that, but he wants to try. “Okay.”</p>
<p>“Now kiss me again,” Jonny demands.</p>
<p>It’s easier to let go of his fractured nerves when Jonny’s tongue is inside his mouth and Jonny’s cock is wedged up inside his ass, rubbing over all the parts that set off fireworks in his body and brain. He kisses Jonny wet and slick, grinding down and beginning to rock in slow rolls that make him gasp.</p>
<p>Patrick’s own dick is dripping on Jonny’s stomach and he touches it briefly, creating a loose fist to fuck into before he gives it up to wrap his arm back around Jonny again. The leverage helps him to lift up and slowly slide back down. There’s no need to rush; he can take his time, tease it out.</p>
<p>He undulates his hips, watching Jonny’s eyes track up and down his torso. He touches Patrick all over as if he can’t decide where he wants to touch most, Patrick’s ass, his nipples, his abs, his bouncing cock, moaning every time Patrick clenches down around him or speeds up his movements.</p>
<p>After a handful of minutes, Patrick watches Jonny plant his feet on the mattress to pump his hips up and thrust inside Patrick with a force that has his eyes rolling up in his head and a sob rushing out of his lungs.</p>
<p>“Can’t get enough of this, Jonny. Can’t stop thinking about it,” he says, slamming himself down on Jonny’s big cock as Jonny fucks up into him, turning his blood into fire. “Sometimes everything feels like filler until we’re back here again.”</p>
<p>“Baby, <i>fuck</i>,” Jonny whimpers and comes.</p>
<p>Patrick can feel it filling him, burning hot and wet as Jonny keeps on fucking him. He’s reaching for his dick to bring himself off when Jonny, without warning, flips them, all the while never slipping out. He takes a moment to shudder, vibrating on top of Patrick like he’s been electrified. Then he begins driving into Patrick once more, hard and deep, and Patrick only needs Jonny’s stomach brushing over the head of his cock to make him lose it, shooting up his chest as he throws his head back and cries out.</p>
<p>Every time…it’s so good every fucking time. Patrick doesn’t understand how it’s possible. He can barely remember to breathe as it feels like his bones are melting into the bed.</p>
<p>Jonny kisses him and it’s almost a surprise with Patrick’s eyes still being shut. Jonny kisses him and kisses him until Patrick doesn’t know if he’s newly turned on or oversensitized, and it’s devastating how good it is - his head feels upside down.</p>
<p>“I’m not gonna let anything bad happen.” Jonny says it like it’s an irrefutable fact, like he has some mystical sway over the future. “Trust me.”</p>
<p>And the thing is, Patrick does. Even in his lowest moments, even when he doesn’t trust anything else, he knows Jonny will steer them in the right direction. </p>
<p>“I do,” he says, pulling Jonny into another kiss.</p>
<p>It’s everything else he can’t get a grip on that’s up in the air.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Chapter 10</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2012</b>
</p>
<p>If Patrick were to make a pros and cons list of how the following ten months have played out it might go something like...</p>
<p>Cons: They don’t make it past the first round of the playoffs thanks to the Canucks even if they pull it to game seven. Patrick doesn’t escape the summer without having to get a frustrating wrist surgery that keeps him off the ice for months. Sharpy’s taken to teasingly fluttering his eyes at Patrick whenever he catches Patrick looking at Jonny off the ice. Joke's on Sharpy though, Patrick never rises to the bait and Jonny never notices because Patrick never lets him. They lose Soupy, Brouwer, and Skills to trades. He and Jonny try phone sex and realize a very important fact: they suck ass at it. </p>
<p>Pros: Patrick gains two new rookies he really likes in Shawzy and Saader. His birthday, Thanksgiving, and Christmas all manage to stay lowkey and relaxing, for once, and the team holiday party includes a discreetly placed festive red ribbon and a very drunk blow job plus fingering in the bathroom of Seabs’ house. The Hawks get off to a really hot start for the new season and manage to hang onto it all the way through the end of January. Lots of really good sex with Jonny (in person).</p>
<p>The waters feel calm and still, and it’s nice to let his guard down again and believe it’ll be smooth sailing for a while. Last year wasn’t great for the Hawks, was questionable in other aspects, but that’s behind them now and this new year feels full of promise, like the Hawks could finish this season with their eyes closed, walk into the playoffs and dominate one more. The status quo has returned.</p>
<p>It’s all within his grasp.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>And then February tenth happens.</p>
<p>February tenth. Patrick can’t get the date out of his head.</p>
<p>February tenth. It was supposed to be a game like any other game in the middle of a sunny winter day in California.</p>
<p>They’re playing against the Sharks when Jonny and Joe Thornton get in a fight by the bench, heated words thrown back and forth. Patrick can’t hear what they’re saying, isn’t sure what precipitated the argument, but what he does see is Jonny’s helmet come off and Thornton’s fist connect with Jonny’s head. Cause and effect: Jonny’s neck snaps back just enough that he stumbles sideways into the wall. It happens so fast it’s over before it begins, the linesmen in between the two of them and breaking them apart, shoving them further away from one another.</p>
<p>Thornton skates to the penalty box while Jonny returns to the Hawks bench, face flushed and sweaty, blinking so rapidly Patrick is instantly worried Jonny might vomit or pass out. They’re separated by five guys, far enough away he can’t lean over and ask if Jonny is okay or check to see if his breathing is steady. He keeps watch over Jonny in between glancing back at gameplay until it’s his shift and then he has to block it all out as best he can to focus on getting the puck where it needs to be.</p>
<p>After the game Jonny promises he’s fine, but he goes to bed as soon as they get back to the room and all the following morning he’s quiet and withdrawn.</p>
<p>“Are you sure you’re fine?” Patrick asks for the millionth time the next day.</p>
<p>“Yes, I’m good. Quit asking,” Jonny says as they’re riding the bus to the Coyotes arena.</p>
<p>They’re in the middle of a seven-game losing streak. They lose that night, too.</p>
<p>Jonny’s livid. He breaks two of his sticks before Seabs steps in and tells him to lock it down before the media arrives post game.</p>
<p>In Nashville the trainers hold Jonny out and nobody is given an explanation for why. Patrick has to wait until they are on their way to the airport to fly to New York before he’s able to drag an answer out of Jonny.</p>
<p>“What the fuck is going on?” Patrick says, feeling wild-eyed and restless.</p>
<p>Jonny looks miserable, dark circles under his eyes, cheeks blotchy, forehead shiny with sweat. His collar is undone and his tie is gone. He presses his head against the bus’s seat rest and exhales slowly.</p>
<p>It’s dark as they ride on the highway, the streets slick from rain. In Chicago everything is covered in three feet of snow, but down here it’s just wet and cool, and Patrick stares at the droplets collecting on the window as Jonny tells him, “Concussion.”</p>
<p>The dread Patrick felt creeping up his neck for the last 72 hours forms into imaginary hands that start to choke him until it’s hard to breathe.</p>
<p>“How long?” he swallows.</p>
<p>“Not sure,” Jonny murmurs.</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t know what to say. His brain is rushing a hundred miles a minute, too fast to catch onto any one thought, to stop, to think of anything. It’s moving and moving and everything is a blur. He wants to close his eyes and open them and have this not be true.</p>
<p>They sit in silence throughout the flight, and at the hotel, and the next morning, repeat, repeat, repeat.</p>
<p>When the team returns to Chicago, Jonny disappears into the trainers’ offices, then to Dr. Terry’s office. After, he goes home and he shuts off his phone. Patrick knows this because he’s texted and called and it’s gone straight to voicemail, no replies.</p>
<p>It’s been days and Patrick still hasn’t heard from him.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The team wins their first game back at the UC, but it doesn’t feel like a victory. After nine losses in a row, the damage is done. The Hawks have gone from first in the division to hanging onto a wild card spot by the edge of their fucking teeth.</p>
<p>Eleven months and it’s as if they’re back in the same exact spot they were in last April. </p>
<p>Except now they don’t have Jonny.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>He has a day off before the Dallas game and spends most of it texting Jonny trying to get a response from him.</p>
<p>
  <i>10:14 AM<br/><b>Patrick:</b> How are you doing today?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>11:39 AM<br/><b>Patrick:</b> Are you okay?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>1:02 PM<br/><b>Patrick:</b> Feeling better?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>2:50 PM<br/><b>Patrick:</b> Worse?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>5:47 PM<br/><b>Patrick:</b> Hey please answer me</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>8:13 PM<br/><b>Patrick:</b> Jonny</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>8:15 PM<br/><b>Patrick:</b> Jonny</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>8:18 PM<br/><b>Patrick:</b> Jonny</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>8:19 PM<br/><b>Patrick:</b> JONNY</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>10:02 PM<br/><b>Patrick:</b> Can you fucking answer me?!!!!!!</i>
</p>
<p>At midnight, when he still hasn’t heard anything, he decides, <i>screw it</i>, and calls Jonny. It goes straight to voicemail again.</p>
<p>“Hi. It’s me. You probably know that because I’ve been blowing your phone up all day. Actually the last few days. But that’s only because you won’t picking up the fucking phone. I get that you feel like shit right now, for lots of reasons, but could you just let me know you’re okay? Please? I’m starting to - I just need to know you’re alright. If you don’t wanna talk that’s fine, just send me a quick text. If you need anything I can do that too. Let me know. Please, Jon.”</p>
<p>Patrick disconnects the call and throws his phone down on the couch, dropping his face into his hands. He doesn’t know how to help or what to say and he knows, he <i>knows</i> Jonny’s not okay. Even if this concussion is minor and he’ll recover and return, it’s a scar that can’t be removed, a crack that can be mended but never really fixed. If Jonny gets hit in the head again the next time will be worse.</p>
<p>They’re only twenty-four. It’s too early to be thinking about careers ending, retirement, life and death. It’s too much.</p>
<p>He knows Jonny’s thinking about it anyway. He knows it’s consuming his thoughts, because it’s consuming Patrick’s too.</p>
<p>Being forced to walk away from the game early because of injury is an athlete’s worst fear.</p>
<p>Patrick wants to shut it out and pretend this isn’t happening, that it’s all a bad dream, and he can, if he wants, since this isn’t happening to him. It’s happening to Jonny. And maybe that’s why Patrick doesn’t let himself run away from the thoughts plaguing his mind. If Jonny can’t escape it, he doesn’t want to either.</p>
<p>They’re in this together. </p>
<p>If only Jonny would realize that and answer his goddamn phone.</p>
<p>When Patrick finally falls asleep around two in the morning, restless and anxious, he still hasn’t heard from Jonny.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>It isn’t until almost noon the next day when Patrick learns about Jonny’s car accident while he’s at practice.</p>
<p><i>“What the fuck?!”</i> he whispers as his mind blanks out for a second, everything going white, his ears ringing.</p>
<p>“He’s okay,” Stan tells Patrick. “He didn’t even take the ambulance to the hospital. We’re sending Terry to his place to check him over, but I personally talked to him on the phone and he says he’s fine.”</p>
<p><i>You could’ve led with that,</i> Patrick wants to snap at him and tries to get his breathing under control. His chest hurts. His heart is beating so fast.</p>
<p>“Should he even be driving right now? Where did this happen? When?” Patrick asks. He knows it’s not a question he should be asking Stan, who has no real medical knowledge and a lot of power to keep Jonny out longer for his current dubious decisions, but he can’t help it. There are things he needs answers to and no one is talking to him, least of all Jonny.</p>
<p>Stan purses his lips. It’s a tell of his that Patrick’s learned to mean he doesn’t want to give the full truth so Patrick will get a half truth or even less if he’s <i>really</i> lucky. </p>
<p>“He was on his way here for a check up when his car hit one of the transit support beams on Lake Street. No one was injured.”</p>
<p>That doesn’t answer half of Patrick’s questions, but he can see he’s not going to get much more out of Stan and pushing will only make it worse.</p>
<p>“So he’s at home now?” Patrick says.</p>
<p>Stan nods. “Yes. He’s been advised to stay there for the time being and if he needs anything we’ll provide him with it. He’s in good hands.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods and smiles, goes through the motions of polite conversation until Stan walks off. He sits through two team meetings and doesn’t manage to pay attention for more than ten seconds at time, his right leg anxiously jiggling and tapping against the floor. Across the room Sharpy’s watching him, concerned, his brow knit and lips thin. Patrick can’t worry about what Sharpy is or is not thinking about at this moment. He can’t even focus on Kitchen’s new plan for the powerplay.</p>
<p>When they’re finally released for the day it’s all Patrick can do to change into his street clothes and hurry out of the building.</p>
<p>He’s almost to his car when Seabs stops him in the parking lot. “Have you talked to Tazer?”</p>
<p>“Not yet,” Patrick says. He pulls his key fob from his pocket and unlocks his car. It’s right there. He’s so close.</p>
<p>“Are you going over there now?”</p>
<p>It doesn’t occur to Patrick to stop and think, to even hesitate in his response. He knows where he needs to be. “Yes.”</p>
<p>Seabs nods like he was expecting that response, like it isn’t weird for Patrick to be rushing off to check up on Jonny. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe it’s - fuck. Patrick can’t do <i>this</i> right now.  </p>
<p>“Good. That’s good. I want one of us checking up on him regularly. I’m sure the head honchos mean well, but you know how they like to gloss over shit. I’d rather get an update from someone I know is gonna be real with me and it certainly isn’t fucking Jon.”</p>
<p>Patrick sucks in a sharp breath, at a loss for what to say. It’s all true. He needs to see Jonny with his own two eyes, needs to make sure he’s okay. And he can’t wait around another minute, another second. “I’ll text you later, let you know how he is - is feeling.”</p>
<p>Seabs nods again and opens his mouth as if he’s going to say something else, but Patrick doesn’t wait around to hear it. He gives an aborted wave as he opens his trunk to shove his bag inside and then he’s jumping in on the driver’s side seat and pulling away.</p>
<p>On his drive to Jonny’s place he breaks several traffic laws, barely managing to lock his car as he runs to the elevator.</p>
<p>At Jonny’s front door Patrick knocks six times. He counts.</p>
<p>Seven</p>
<p>Eight.</p>
<p>Nine.</p>
<p>Ten-eleven-twelve-thirteen.</p>
<p>Four-</p>
<p>The door opens and behind it Jonny appears, whole and real, his eyes droopy and his hair a chaotic mess sticking up in several different directions. His cheeks are pale, his lips dry and chapped. He’s wearing one of his old red and white Canadian Tire shirts and he smells a little of stale sweat. </p>
<p>“Hey,” Patrick says and squeezes his hands into fists. He wants to push his face to Jonny’s neck and feel his warm skin, breathe in how alive he is here in this instant.</p>
<p>“Kaner?” Jonny asks, voice scratchy, like maybe he just woke up. He’s squinting from the light and he takes a step back to let Patrick in.</p>
<p>“Yeah, it’s me, jackass.” Patrick walks in and doesn’t wrap himself around Jonny, doesn’t step into his space, doesn’t do anything but move to take his shoes off. His hands aren’t quite steady as he pulls the laces free from his Vans. </p>
<p>“What are you doing here?” Jonny says. He looks down at Patrick with confusion, like he maybe just woke up and is lost, disoriented.</p>
<p>Patrick shouldn’t be mad. Jonny’s been through a lot in the last week. He’s having a difficult time. There’s no way to know how Patrick would deal with this situation if he were in Jonny’s place unless one day he had to endure it himself. It’d be a clusterfuck, he has zero doubts about that. He can empathize up to a certain point. It’s when he remembers that Jonny’s been ignoring him and shutting him out this entire time - not returning any of his calls or texts, not talking to him, not letting him know a single thing about what’s going on with him - that Patrick feels a surge of anger rush through him.</p>
<p>And now this - acting as if he doesn’t understand why Patrick would be worried or why he’d show up on Jonny’s doorstep after he wrecked his goddamn car.</p>
<p>Jonathan Toews: Blackhawks Captain and big dick for brains.</p>
<p>“What am I - what?” Patrick says, head snapping up. He stands and stares at Jonny with wide eyes. “Are you serious right now? I’m here to see if you’re okay! I heard about your car accident and, <i>fuck</i>, even before that. I was trying to call you and you wouldn’t answer! Why weren’t you answering?!”</p>
<p>Jonny winces as Patrick’s voice slowly rises in volume. “Can you stop yelling? It hurts my head.”</p>
<p>“Maybe you deserve it!” Patrick bites out.</p>
<p>Jonny winces again and Patrick feels it like a suckerpunch to his own gut. “Maybe, but can you stop anyway?”</p>
<p>He looks...so fucking miserable, cheeks pallid, eyes hazy and his forehead deeply creased. Patrick wants to be furious with Jonny for shutting him out, for lying about his concussion, for getting in his car and driving today when he knew better, when he could’ve just called Patrick or Seabs or anyone on the team for help.</p>
<p>His stubborn fucking ass. Patrick wants to shake him, he wants to hold him. </p>
<p>“Fine,” he murmurs, blowing out a long breath. “Sorry. Are you okay?”</p>
<p>Jonny half shrugs, an abortive movement as he looks away. “Not really.”</p>
<p>It’s a non-answer because he doesn’t want to tell the truth, Patrick knows.</p>
<p>“Is there anything I can do?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Jonny says, quiet, like it pains him to speak above a whisper. “I need to go lie back down though.” </p>
<p>Taking a second, Patrick looks him over, checking for - he’s not even sure what. Some physical sign of an injury.  A gash, a trail of blood, a bruised mark. There’s none of that. Everything happening to Jonny is happening on the inside.</p>
<p>“Does it hurt? Should I call Dr. Terry?”</p>
<p>Jonny rubs a hand over his face, knuckling at his eyes. “He was just here. He told me to stay in bed, drink fluids, avoid bright lights and flashing screens, and to call if I threw up or felt dizzy.”</p>
<p>His mouth is down turned, not quite a frown, but close enough to it Patrick aches for his smile.</p>
<p>Stepping up beside him Patrick presses a light hand to the middle of Jonny’s back, urging him forward. “Well, c’mon. Let’s get you back into bed then.”</p>
<p>In Jonny’s bedroom Patrick goes about straightening the pillows and sheets, which are tangled and in disarray, folds back the comforter and goes to get Jonny a bottled water as he slides back into bed. When Patrick returns, he pulls the top sheet and comforter over Jonny’s body and checks to make sure Jonny has all of the pills he needs.</p>
<p>“Are you tucking me in?” Jonny asks. His lips curl slightly up in one corner. It’s not cute.</p>
<p>It’s not.</p>
<p>“Yes, shut up,” Patrick says. “Are you hungry?”</p>
<p>“Can I answer or are you going to tell me to shut up again?”</p>
<p>Patrick debates his choices. “I might.”</p>
<p>Settling back onto his pillow, Jonny’s eyes immediately drop closed. “I’m a little hungry. And tired.”</p>
<p>“You take a nap and I’ll go get us some food,” Patrick says, fighting the urge to brush a hand over Jonny’s forehead and into his messy hair. “Be right back.”</p>
<p>Jonny’s already breathing evenly by the time Patrick turns off the light and leaves his room. He goes to Chipotle and gets them two steak burrito bowls because he’s feeling lazy and wants something he can easily reheat for Jonny if he’s still sleeping when Patrick returns. As it turns out, Jonny is asleep once Patrick gets back in by way of the extra key Jonny keeps on a hook in his office.</p>
<p>He places the food in the refrigerator and takes a seat on the couch, pulling out the book he started reading the week before to distract himself. It’s where Jonny finds him when he eventually wakes and enters the living room two hours later, looking even more disheveled than when Patrick first arrived. But at the least some of the color has returned to his cheeks, a pillow crease running over the left side of his jaw and to his temple. It makes him look all of eighteen years old again.</p>
<p>A memory of World Juniors in 2007 suddenly flashes through Patrick’s mind. It was the second day after Patrick had arrived in Mora, Sweden and he was suffering a bad case of jetlag, groggy and dragging ass, but Coach had mentioned there was a free skate open at the arena for Group A. It was a good opportunity to get his bearings and he couldn’t let it pass him by so he sucked it up and went. When he walked in only a handful of guys were on the ice, Johnson and van Riemsdyk, a few Swedes and Canadians.</p>
<p>
  <i>Patrick hops on the ice and heads down to the other end of the rink where it’s less crowded, skating a few circles and stickhandling until he hears a familiar voice call his name.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Hey Kaner!”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He looks up and there’s Jonny, gliding toward him in his red Canadian practice gear, his smile bright, his dark eyes piercing. Patrick hasn’t played with Jonny since they were fourteen, before they both left home to further their hockey careers, but he has seen Jonny in passing since then. Just, maybe, not this close up.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>His face hasn’t changed. It’s been the same since they were ten years old. But everything else...fuck.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Patrick isn’t sure what’s happening but he feels a little sick to his stomach, what the hell?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>He lets out a stuttered laugh as Jonny stops in front of him and he has to look up and up. “Jonny, whoa.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“What?” Jonny says, smile faltering.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You’re taller.” About six inches taller if Patrick had to guess.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Jonny beams, then skates closer and bumps his arm into Patrick, moving Patrick backwards. “I was always taller.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Well that’s certainly, annoyingly true.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Patrick rolls his eyes and then grins. He bumps his fist against Jonny’s chest. “How’s it going, dude? I saw about the Blackhawks. Congrats!”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Thanks,” Jonny says, his answer a weird mix of bashful confidence. “You should join me.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“On the - the Hawks?” Patrick asks.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Jonny looks at him, eyes big and dark, almost unblinking. It would freak Patrick out but he remembers this, the intensity of Jonny and his two modes: smartass and deathly, painfully earnest. He never had to guess where he stood with Jonny, even when he was being sarcastic or teasing, and Patrick’s always appreciated that.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Yeah!” he says, bumping into Patrick again. “I’ve heard some things. Tallon really likes you. We could play together, really light it up, you know?”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>For a second Patrick lets himself picture what could be, excitement welling up in his chest.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“Yeah we could,” he says, glancing up at Jonny. The reflection of anticipation he sees there makes his head spin. “But first I have to win myself a world juniors championship.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Barking out a laugh Jonny says, “Too bad it’s gonna be mine.”</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>“You so sure about that?” Patrick challenges.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>And Jonny’s grin widens. “I always get what I want.”</i>
</p>
<p>He’d thought of that interaction with Jonny through the rest of the tournament. Even when Team USA fell to Canada in the semifinals and disappointment shrouded what was otherwise shaping up to be a stellar tournament, he couldn’t shake Jonny’s dumb smile or his words.</p>
<p>The day he’d been drafted, Jonny had texted him, <i>Welcome aboard #1!</i></p>
<p>He never did delete that text.</p>
<p>“How long was I out?” Jonny lets out a jaw cracking yawn and takes a ginger seat next to Patrick on the couch.</p>
<p>“About two hours,” Patrick says. He folds over the top edge of the page to hold his place and then closes the book he was reading, sets it on his lap. “Want me to heat up your food?”</p>
<p>Leaning his head on the back of the couch Jonny closes his eyes for a minute and exhales slowly, like he’s trying to get himself to wake up a little more. “Gimme like 20 minutes.”</p>
<p>“Okay.” Patrick opens his book again and begins reading until he can feel Jonny watching him from the corner of his eye.</p>
<p>“What are you reading?”</p>
<p>“Paper Towns.”</p>
<p>Jonny pokes at the cover. “What’s it about?”</p>
<p>Patrick thinks about how to condense the plot for a beat, without it coming out sounding like exactly what it is: a book about teenagers. “A guy trying to find the girl he likes after she mysteriously disappears.” </p>
<p>“Sounds like a romance novel.” Jonny hums.</p>
<p>It’s a teasing comment, the kind Patrick would usually feed into just to give Jonny back the shit he’s dishing out, but Patrick can’t manage to pull forth the effort.</p>
<p>“You hungry yet?” he asks after several minutes have passed by in silence.</p>
<p>Jonny’s still sitting with his head leaning back against the couch, eyes closed. He cracks them open at Patrick’s question, sitting upright. “Sure.”</p>
<p>With one last glance to check him over, Patrick leaves Jonny to rest on the couch and goes to the kitchen to heat up their food. He brings it out to the living room with more water and a few napkins and they eat without the TV on for the first time in a long time. The quiet feels heavy with all the things Patrick wants to say, but can’t, like how Jonny’s a moron for driving when he didn’t feel well, or for not asking for help, or for lying about his condition in the first place.</p>
<p>It wouldn’t help to yell at Jonny now even if he wants to, even if he already did, even if he knows the anger isn’t really anger, but fear.</p>
<p>He feels as tired as Jonny looks, bone deep and aching. When Jonny’s finished pushing around the last remnants of his burrito bowl, Patrick takes it from him and carries all the trash back into the kitchen to throw away. The place is a mess with a sink full of dirty dishes and the countertops covered in old takeout cartons and crumpled up receipts, but Patrick tidies what he can in Jonny’s trainwreck of a kitchen. The cleaners must have been called off at some point this week. Even for Jonny’s usual amount of chaos, this is above and beyond.</p>
<p>“Okay, time for a nap,” Patrick says as he returns to the living room to see Jonny closed-eyed on the couch again.</p>
<p>He helps him up on his feet even as Jonny huffs and grumbles all the way back to his bedroom while he’s getting situated back under his covers, but he hushes when he sees Patrick slip off his pants and get in bed beside him with just his boxers and a long sleeve T-shirt on.</p>
<p>Patrick watches him down a few more pills and some water and when Jonny’s finally still, Patrick cracks open his book and begins reading, sitting up while Jonny’s lying down.</p>
<p>An arm comes to rest on Patrick’s lap and tugs, pulling him closer until their bodies are pressed side to side, Jonny’s head half-resting on Patrick’s ribcage.</p>
<p>“Patrick…” </p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>There’s an infinite pause where Patrick tries to imagine all of the things Jonny might say, all of the thoughts that might be floating around in his head, the gigantic clawing fears, and the miniscule, nagging worries. He watches Jonny’s brow furrow and his eyes stray off to somewhere far away, his mouth opening minutely.</p>
<p>“Do you…” Jonny starts and then stops, pursing his lips together. “Nothing.”</p>
<p>“What is it?” Patrick asks, touching the nape of Jonny’s neck with the very tips of his fingers, barely there, waiting.</p>
<p>“Nothing. It was nothing. Read to me,” Jonny murmurs and presses his face into Patrick’s shirt.</p>
<p>The book is in Patrick’s hand, his place held by his thumb between the pages. He stares at the cover and then back at Jonny wondering if he should push, if he should make Jonny say one of his thoughts, even if it rips them both up inside. But then his eyes travel down to Jonny’s drawn and fatigued expression, the withered down turn of his mouth and he lets it go.</p>
<p>
  <i>“I watch her write. Except for being a little grimy-”</i>
</p>
<p>“You can’t start at the end of the book.” Jonny interrupts, and Patrick looks down to see Jonny’s gaze searching, trying to see what page Patrick is on. “I won’t know what’s going on.”</p>
<p>“Close your eyes,” Patrick says. “You don’t need to know what’s going on. You’re supposed to be sleeping anyway.”</p>
<p>Jonny's frown deepens. “How can I sleep if you’re reading?”</p>
<p>“It’s a bedtime story, that’s how.”</p>
<p>“Starting at the end?” He’s such a stubborn jackass. Patrick wants to get up and walk out right now.</p>
<p>Except he doesn’t, not even a little bit.</p>
<p>
  <i>Dammit.</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick sighs. “Yes, because that’s where I last left off.”</p>
<p>“Makes sense,” Jonny states dryly.</p>
<p>He’s being difficult because he doesn’t feel well, Patrick understands this, he’s seen it enough times to know. It’s Jonny’s default setting when he’s extremely angry or upset. He makes himself impenetrable. He makes himself the wall and then he smashes through it, telling himself the whole time that he should be unbreakable.</p>
<p>An impossible standard to live by and yet Patrick is intimately familiar with it.</p>
<p>“Look,” he says and places his free hand on Jonny’s broad, curved back, feeling the muscles and strength Jonny holds within his body. “Jess sent me this book like six months ago. Actually sent it to me in the mail. I think she knew if she told me to go out and buy it I wouldn’t so she sent it herself and demanded I read it because she liked it so much. And I’ve been putting it off, up until like three weeks ago. Anyway, I’m almost done so just lie there quietly and listen.”</p>
<p>“Fine,” Jonny mumbles, but does as he’s told and closes his eyes.</p>
<p>
  <i>“I watch her write. Except for being a little grimy, she looks like she has always looked. I don’t know why, but I always thought she would look different. Older. That I would barely recognize her when I finally saw her again. But there she is, and I am watching her through the Plexiglas, and she looks like Margo Roth Spiegelman, this girl I have known since I was two—this girl who was an idea that I loved.”</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick pauses to run his hand up Jonny’s back to his neck, fingers sliding into the back of Jonny’s hair where it’s starting to get a little long now and curly at the ends. Patrick twirls it around his pointer finger, again and again, then moves on to another curl, and repeats the process.</p>
<p>
  <i>“And it is only now, when she closes her notebook and places it inside a backpack next to her and then stands up and walks toward us, that I realize that the idea is not only wrong but dangerous. What a treacher-ous thing it is to believe that a person is more than a person.”</i>
</p>
<p>When he pauses a second time, he notices Jonny’s asleep and breathing deeply, his chest rising then falling, and he’s okay. He’s okay. He’s going to be okay.</p>
<p>Patrick blinks and realizes his face is wet.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>There’s a game that night against Dallas and Patrick can’t concentrate, too preoccupied with Jonny, wondering if he’s feeling okay, if he’s still curled up in bed where Patrick left him.</p>
<p>They lose three to one and Patrick goes home to his own place that night, even if he doesn’t want to and only because he has to get up at six in the morning to be on a plane to Los Angeles the next day.</p>
<p>The Kings and Ducks games don’t fare much better and by the time they return to Chicago four days later, Patrick’s too annoyed about hockey and how he can’t manage to get more than a single-word reply of “Fine” from Jonny that he doesn’t care about just showing up at Jonny’s place without notice after leaving the airport midafternoon. He uses the key he pocketed from before and lets himself inside. As Patrick’s setting down his bag and taking off his coat, shaking his shoes loose of residual snow, he hears a faucet turn off in the kitchen and footsteps.</p>
<p>He’s not expecting to see Jonny’s mom come from around the corner, a dish towel in her hands and a gray checkered apron around her waist.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Toews,” Patrick says, startled. “Hi.”</p>
<p>For a beat, Andree appears as taken off guard to see Patrick there as he does her, but then she neatly schools her face and smiles warmly. “It’s Gilbert, darling. Not Toews.” She walks further into the room and gives him a hug, the kind with two arms and a gentle back rub, the kind Patrick’s grandpa gives. “How have you been?”</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Patrick says. He knew that - he just forgot - he wants to say. Instead he smiles awkwardly. “Mrs. Gilbert. Ms. Gilbert? Miss?”</p>
<p>Andree laughs, just a little. “How about you just call me Andree, yes? After all of these years.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods. “Andree. I’ve been. I’m. I don’t know.” He folds his hands together because he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Should he go? Jonny doesn’t need him here if his mom is around and he can’t exactly explain why he needs to see Jonny.</p>
<p>Sharpy and Bicks had watched Patrick hurry off the plane when they landed an hour ago. Patrick could hear Bicks say to someone, from behind him, “Where the hell is Kaner going?” </p>
<p>He hadn’t heard the response, but they’d noticed.</p>
<p>Andree’s eyes are so much like Jonny’s, if not as dark, and just as intense. It makes Patrick ache.</p>
<p>“Me too,” she says. “Come here. Come in.” She chauffeurs Patrick farther into Jonny’s condo and draws him into the kitchen, pulling out a stool for him at the island. “We’ll get through this together. Would you like some tea?”</p>
<p>“Anything with lemon?”</p>
<p>She cups his cheek for a brief second and then turns to the stove and picks up the stainless steel kettle to fill with water. “I think I can manage that.”</p>
<p>Patrick catches her up on the Hawks while they drink their tea, how the team is struggling in Jonny’s absence, with his absence, how Patrick’s being cycled through all of the lines, double shifting, how they’ve asked him to take face-offs and center in Jonny’s place and none of it’s helping, none of it replaces Jonny.</p>
<p>He asks her about Bryan and David, if they’re good, how David’s liking it in Ohio, if Bryan’s job is keeping him busy.</p>
<p>The kitchen is almost spotless compared to the last time Patrick saw it and he wonders if Andree cleaned it over the last few days. He can’t imagine there’s much to do while Jonny needs quiet to rest.</p>
<p>“How’s he been?” Patrick asks, after they’ve exhausted all other avenues of conversation for the moment.</p>
<p>“Some nausea, a few headaches. No vomiting, which is good, or so I hear. The doctors say to stay away from television for the time being so he has been reading. I think he is frustrated that the headaches make it difficult to do that for long periods of time. He sleeps a lot, listens to books on his phone,” Andree says. She stands to place their empty cups in the sink and turns the faucet on to begin washing them.</p>
<p>Patrick’s mom does this when she’s anxious, cleans and cleans. It’s probably where he picked up the habit himself.</p>
<p>“What’d I miss?” Jonny says from the open door way of the kitchen.</p>
<p>Andree says something in French that makes Jonny sigh and reply, “Oui, Maman.”</p>
<p>They speak back and forth quickly for a minute, too quickly for Patrick to pick up more than a general vibe about the conversation, something he’s guessing has to do with Andree asking Jonny how he's feeling. And then she says, “Patrick and I were catching up.”</p>
<p>“About me, you mean?” Jonny says, like it’s a fact.</p>
<p>Patrick coughs out a laugh. It still surprises him sometimes how Jonny can be such a cocky fucker and so right at the exact same time. It’s like a magical power.</p>
<p>“Why would we wanna talk about you?” Patrick says, looking right at Jonny. <i>“Boring.”</i></p>
<p>“Très ennuyeux.” Andree smiles, amused.</p>
<p>Jonny squawks, mock indignant. “You’re not supposed to gang up on me. I’m already incapacitated.”</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t mean to do it, he really doesn’t, but the reality hits him anew all over again and the smile slides off his face. Jonny’s injured, Jonny’s hurt. Somehow it slipped his mind for the few minutes they were joking around and everything felt normal, it was good. </p>
<p>Jonny’s eyes connect with his and he stills, like it’s crashed into him too, and then he turns, pressing his lips together. He goes to the fridge and pulls the door open, starts rummaging inside.</p>
<p>The quiet hangs heavy as Jonny takes a Gatorade from the fridge and walks over to a cabinet to retrieve some Tylenol.</p>
<p>“Who wants cheeseburgers and fries?” Andree asks, clapping her hands together. “I think we can all forego our diet plans for one night, yes? Yes. I will go make an order.”</p>
<p>She stands and leaves the room, Patrick isn’t sure why, perhaps to go fetch her phone. He gets up out of his seat too and moves to Jonny, where he’s leaning against the counter on the opposite side of the island.</p>
<p>He tugs on the front of Jonny’s shirt, not knowing what to say, if there are any words to say in a time like this, with everything so uncertain and difficult. Jonny feels too far away and untouchable even as Patrick has the fabric of Jonny’s tank top clutched in his hand.</p>
<p>They look at each other, Patrick’s eyes tracing over Jonny’s face. It’s a good face.</p>
<p>From another room Andree calls, “Patrick, dear, come help me!”</p>
<p>“Me?” Patrick asks Jonny, alarmed.</p>
<p>“Yeah, you,” Jonny says, expression shifting into something fond. “Go on.” </p>
<p>Turns out Andree needs a list of the best burger places in Chicago. It takes them twenty minutes to make a list and then cut that list down to top three choices. Jonny gets the final pick, but only after Patrick and Andree have agreed on a top three and he chooses their number one pick anyway.</p>
<p>They watch a Blue Planet documentary as they eat their avocado cheeseburgers and curly fries, joking about the terrifying deep, dark depths at the bottom of the ocean and the fish that reside there. Andree is funny, sarcastic and quick like Jonny, if softer around the edges. It shouldn’t surprise Patrick since it’s Jonny’s mother, but it’s charming all the same.</p>
<p>Jonny becomes drowsy as they get halfway through a rerun of Sweet Home Alabama, and heads to bed, leaving Patrick and Andree to finish the movie on their own. He’s not sure why he stays for the whole thing. He’s seen it before and Andree doesn’t need his help, but he stays anyway, cleaning up his trash before he gives her a hug and departs. As he’s driving home, he thinks about how all through dinner, Jonny’s eyes looked less haunted than they have in days.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>In the weeks that follow Patrick’s in and out of Chicago while Andree stays with Jonny, helping care for him. She keeps Patrick updated through texts and calls without Patrick even having to ask. And he appreciates knowing Jonny only had one headache a day or that he took two naps instead of three, even if it doesn’t necessarily mean the next day will be better, or that he’s any closer to returning to play. He likes knowing what’s going on and Jonny certainly isn’t sharing any fucking news himself.</p>
<p>It’s not a big deal. Mostly.</p>
<p>Patrick gets it, the need to pull in when shit gets hard and close a door to the world. He just didn’t think after everything they’ve been through, and how close they are as friends, that Jonny would exclude him as one of the few allowed inside before it locks.</p>
<p>He really is grateful to Andree, how she’s been informing him, how she’s been there to talk to, how she’ll ask how his day is going when he’s messaging her for his usual early evening check-in on Jonny. She never makes it weird, never questions why he wants to know, just responds and moves on. It’s nice having someone on his side.</p>
<p>After three days away, Patrick returns and makes plans with Andree to bring lunch over on his free day. Andree asks for a steak salad from Bavette's for herself and Jonny, but Patrick knows for a fact she’s only choosing that place because Jonny likes it and that last week she was watching an episode of Chopped and drooling over clam carbonara. He drives over to Rosebud on Rush and picks her up a large helping of pasta and a shit ton of breadsticks because Jonny might not be able to eat gluten, but Andree and Patrick sure can.</p>
<p>He knocks on Jonny’s door instead of letting himself inside when he arrives, arms full of takeout bags.</p>
<p>Andree answers with tired but genuine cheer, ushering him past the door and then relieving him of one of the bags as they go to the kitchen.</p>
<p>“Hi,” Patrick says, trailing behind her. He sets the one bag in his possession on the counter and begins to unload it.</p>
<p>“Hello, dear,” she says, her eyes brightening when she sees the container of clam carbonara in between the two steak salads, breadsticks, and Patrick’s own chicken marsala. “Thank you for bringing dinner. You are so kind.” </p>
<p>Patrick shrugs. “It’s no big deal. Jonny resting?”</p>
<p>She collects the two steak salads and puts them in the fridge, her lips pressed together, and her eyes tired. “He is out running. I think being cooped up has made him restless and...frustrated.”</p>
<p>“Was he being grouchy with you?” Patrick asks.</p>
<p>“Perhaps a little, but I understand. Even as a boy he hated to be indoors for too long at one time.”</p>
<p>She grabs two plates from one of the nearby cabinets and a set of forks and napkins for each of them. They pull up chairs around the island in the kitchen instead of moving to the dining room, the warm glow of the drop lights shining a cosy halo around them both.</p>
<p>“Well, if he was a di-,” Patrick stops himself, a wry smile crossing his mouth. “If he was a jerk, let me know and I’ll throw his food out right now. I swear I will. Only good sons get food delivered to them. That’s my motto - that I just made up right now - but I stand by it.”</p>
<p>Andree’s amusement melts into happiness as she takes her first bite of pasta. “No, let’s keep it. We wouldn’t want him to become grouchy with you as well.”</p>
<p>Patrick waves that thought away. “I can handle him.”</p>
<p>One of the perks of having known Jonny since they were eleven years old is he’s now immune to most of Jonny’s angry tantrums and foul moods. Jonny doesn’t scare him.</p>
<p>Andree smiles at Patrick as if she’s dubious of his declaration. Then she reaches out and clasps her hand around Patrick’s from across the island. “You’ve truly helped Jonathan and me through this whole ordeal and I must thank you for that.” She looks at him with such sincerity Patrick can only duck his head.</p>
<p>“You don’t have to thank me. I haven’t done much. Jonny won’t let me do much. Won’t talk to me much either.” Patrick swallows. “Has he talked to you…about any of it?”</p>
<p>She gives his hand a gentle squeeze and lets go. They dig into their food for a few minutes and Patrick doesn’t press her for a response. He can tell she’s thinking and that whatever is flickering through her mind is expanding, collecting other thoughts as it grows. If she needs time Patrick won’t push. If she doesn’t want to answer him at all he’ll accept that too. If it’s difficult for Patrick to contemplate a future without Jonny playing hockey he can’t imagine what it’s like for Andree, who’s been there from the very first step on the ice, from the first scrape, to the first game, and every moment after.</p>
<p>“When he was ten, one of his hockey coaches told him his skating was sloppy,” Andree says, eyes focused on her plate of food. “For the next three weeks every day after school he came home, finished his school work, and skated until it was dark outside, until I had to have his father drag him back into the house to eat dinner before bed. I found dried blood in his skates that night.” </p>
<p>She pauses and shakes her head a little, like the memory still perplexes her.</p>
<p>“When he was thirteen, he missed a goal during a tournament game and his team lost. He practiced that shot on the pond until he had callouses all over his hands, his skin rubbed raw and sore. I asked him why he did it. Why he pushed himself so hard, it was just one game. And he said, ‘I want to be the best, Maman.’” Andree looks up at Patrick and it’s intimidating to have her full attention on him, but he doesn’t shrink back or turn away. If she’s going to tell him a truth, he wants to hear it.</p>
<p>“I do not always approve of his decisions, even to this day, and I tell him so freely. But my son is a very stubborn boy, he always has been, and he often feels he must carry all of the responsibility on his back.”</p>
<p>“Even when it hurts him,” Patrick adds quietly.</p>
<p>She nods. “Even then.”</p>
<p>“He scares me when he won’t just talk to me,” Patrick says, his voice suddenly thick. “Like no offense but he can be a moron.” </p>
<p>“Sometimes,” Andree says. “But I am happy you two have each other. I...do not think everyone he’s played with understands his drive. It is what pushes him above and beyond. You have that in you, too. I see it.” </p>
<p>It’s too much. Patrick has to look away. He goes back to his pasta, methodically twisting it around his fork again and again. “Most people just think I’m a party boy that got lucky. I don’t know. Maybe they’re right.”</p>
<p>“No,” Andree says, and she sounds so adamant. “Nobody plays hockey the way you do because they stumbled into it. I only have to hear Jonathan talk about how you play to know this.”</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t know how to respond, too overwhelmed at the implication and the compliment. It’s not as if his own family never tells him he’s good at hockey, or that he doesn’t understand he’s one of the better players in the NHL. He knows. Most of the time he knows. Sometimes he compares himself and he sees where he’s lacking. People are always eager to tell him how he should improve. The outside voices can become loud, overwhelming. </p>
<p>It’s so easy to remember the negative things, the shit that makes Patrick question if he’s doing his best, if he’s working hard enough, if he has what it takes to be elite. His faith in himself is like the flame of a candle in a dark, open room filled with shouting skeptical voices. It can only light up so much.</p>
<p>That Andree believes in Patrick fills him with promise. Jonny’s belief too, even if he can’t voice it. He takes a bite of food and lets the silence flow between them as they eat. It doesn’t feel awkward or weird. In fact, it’s nice to be still.</p>
<p>On the other side of the island, Patrick notices a puzzle set up, half-finished, of a cottage in a glen scattered with flowers, maybe five hundred pieces.</p>
<p>“My grandpa likes puzzles,” he says when he finally speaks. “The kinds with submarines and airplanes on them. He had one of a fighter pilot that was ten thousand pieces when I was a kid. It took us like eleven months to finish it. He had it framed afterwards and it hangs in his study now.”</p>
<p>“Sounds like you are close to your grandfather,” Andree says, humming around her bite of food. “My parents live in Quebec so they do not get to see the boys very often unfortunately.”</p>
<p>“I used to see Grandpa all the time growing up. He’d come to all of my weekend games, and I’d stay over at his house with my sisters a lot because he doesn’t live far from my parents. But then I moved to Michigan when I was fourteen and it was hard to have time. And it’s even harder now...I miss him.”</p>
<p>Andree reaches for Patrick’s hand again. “He misses you too, I’m sure.”</p>
<p>“You get so much playing hockey at this level. I know I shouldn’t complain. It’s just. No one tells you about the things you’ll give up too.”</p>
<p>He squeezes her hand in return.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Chapter 11</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2012</b>
</p>
<p>Patrick throws himself into hockey as much as he can, his focus renewed as the team forces a final push to make it into the playoffs. After the long losing streak, they have their work cut out for them and it’s uplifting to go on a small, five-game win-streak that helps them cling to that top wild card spot. It’s only slightly sullied by Q continually assigning Patrick as a center instead of as a wing to fill in for Jonny’s absence. The experience is weird, foreign, and to be honest he’s pretty fucking shitty at it, only winning about two faceoffs out of ten or fifteen per game.</p>
<p>The last time he consistently played any other position than right wing, he was about fourteen years old and even then he wasn’t very good at it. Now, with players even bigger and stronger than they were when Patrick was a teenager, it’s difficult to fight to keep the puck and direct it where it needs to go when he’s so used to leaning on his more offensive abilities.</p>
<p>Defense is Jonny’s skill and Jonny’s not here.</p>
<p>Patrick’s tired. The new A stitched onto his jersey feels heavy - keeps catching him off guard.</p>
<p>He starts biting his fingernails in the hotel room at night when he’s alone. He chews until the nail is mostly gone and then a little bit more, around the edge. When it starts to bleed, he’ll stop and move onto the next finger and repeat the process.</p>
<p>He tries to beat off in the shower and think of sexy body parts, asses and tits, wet tongues and skillful fingers. It gets him nowhere, it doesn’t even keep him hard. Those thoughts almost always morph into Jonny - his big hands, his thick thighs, his huge cock - pressing Patrick down, pressing into him, fucking him so good he forgets how to think. The oblivion sounds nice. If he could just disappear into it for a while maybe then everything wouldn’t be so impossible.</p>
<p>He wears the number five plug on and off, not only when he’s trying to masturbate, but other times too, just to let the fullness of it settle inside him. It’s not the same.</p>
<p>Without Jonny, none of it’s the same.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The evening Andree leaves on a red-eye to return to Winnipeg, Patrick drives her to Midway and sends her off with a hug and his word to look after Jonny and to keep him from making any more stupid decisions. Okay, that last part wasn’t explicitly said out loud but they both silently agreed to it. They understand each other now.</p>
<p>It’s late by the time Patrick makes it back to his own place and he stays in the parking garage, long enough that four or five songs play through on the radio as he sits motionless. He could go up to his own empty condo and watch some TV until he's tired enough to fall into bed. He could call up Sharpy or Bolly, or even Shawzy and go out for some drinks, maybe talk to some girls.</p>
<p>Jonny doesn’t need him. Jonny is fine. He knows because he watched Jonny say goodbye to his mom and then head off to bed in a pair of soft gray sleep pants and a black Bauer T-shirt, his feet bare. Patrick wonders if he’s already kicked off the pants and yanked off the shirt, if he’s curled up in bed naked with only one blanket. It’s not warm in Chicago, it’s not even technically spring yet, but to Jonny it’s always too warm to wear clothes to bed.</p>
<p>The truth is Jonny doesn’t need him but Patrick wants to be there anyway. </p>
<p>He drives back to Jonny’s place and slips inside quietly, all of the lights turned off and everything still. It might be strange for Patrick to miss someone else’s mom, but he liked having Andree around, felt safe every time she told him not to worry or pulled Jonny out of one of his brooding moods. </p>
<p>Patrick didn’t think there was anyone more steady in a storm than Jonny, but Andree might be that person.</p>
<p>He pads to Jonny’s room and walks to the bed without turning on any of the lights. In the bed, Jonny’s turned on his side and facing the wall, asleep. Patrick undresses down to his boxers and gets beneath the covers. He doesn’t stop himself from curling around Jonny’s back and pressing his face to the nape of Jonny’s warm neck.</p>
<p>He smells of skin and heat and Patrick’s eyes close like they’ve been open for a thousand years.</p>
<p>“Patrick?” Jonny says a beat later, voice sleep rough.</p>
<p>“It’s me,” Patrick murmurs, lips against Jonny’s spine. “Go back to sleep.”</p>
<p>Of course Jonny doesn’t listen, shifting on his pillow, but Patrick doesn’t move from where he’s embarrassingly wrapped around Jonny like an octopus and doesn’t give him a lot of leverage to go one way or another.</p>
<p>“You okay?” Jonny asks, twisting his head around. He can only turn so far with Patrick clinging to his back.</p>
<p>“I’m,” Patrick says, and a wet sound catches in the back of his throat. He tries to swallow and feels his eyes begin to water. He squeezes them shut again to keep the tears inside. “I’m fine. Just wanted to be here.”</p>
<p>The ceiling fan is whirring above them, the only white noise in the whole room. Patrick listens to it for a while until he feels one of Jonny’s hands move up over his own, where it’s resting on Jonny’s middle, and clasp around it.</p>
<p>“I’m glad you came.”</p>
<p>“Of course I came,” Patrick says. “You’re my captain.”</p>
<p>Jonny huffs out an amused laugh. “If that’s the only reason, remind me not to let Duncs in my bed when it’s his turn.”</p>
<p>Patrick curls his thumb over Jonny’s forefinger. “It’s not the only reason.”</p>
<p>“Yeah?” Jonny asks like he’s not certain, like maybe it wasn’t completely fucking obvious.</p>
<p>Patrick’s been by his place every day he wasn’t away in another city or swamped with practices and games, and even then he’d usually stop by for an hour, at least, to talk with Andree and check on Jonny, make sure he had everything he needed. He came by even when Jonny didn’t leave his room, answer his texts, or acknowledge that Patrick was trying to hold the team together while he was gone.</p>
<p>And it’s been unimaginably difficult trying to fill the void Jonny left for these past five weeks. It’s been frustrating. It’s been lonely.</p>
<p>He doesn’t even miss the sex that much. </p>
<p>Wait, no.</p>
<p>That’s a lie. He does.</p>
<p>But <i>God</i>, he also just misses his friend.</p>
<p>Patrick rubs his face against Jonny’s shoulder. “It’s so hard without you around. They want me to do what you do and I can’t. I can’t be you. There’s no one that can do what you do. And I just...I need you to get better. I need you there with me.”</p>
<p>It’s so intensely humiliating how he let it all out in one go like that, but he can’t take it back and he’s not sure he even wants to. He’s exposed, holding onto Jonny like he’s some kind of rabid animal and Jonny is probably five seconds away from telling him to get a grip and chill out. Patrick braces for it.</p>
<p>“I’m with you,” Jonny says, rubbing his hand up and down Patrick’s arm. “It’s gonna be okay, baby.”</p>
<p>Patrick bites back the sob that wants to burst free. “I can’t do this by myself.”</p>
<p>“You won’t have to. I’m coming back. I promise. It’ll be okay,” he says and tries to turn over again.</p>
<p>Patrick won’t let him, holding firm, and it’s really more that Jonny isn’t pushing the issue than it is Patrick keeping him in place. He knows just how strong Jonny is when he wants to be and how, exactly, he can exert that strength. In this instance he’s kind enough to let Patrick stay put and Patrick is more than grateful for it as he exhales a harsh breath.</p>
<p>
  <i>“Fuck.”</i>
</p>
<p>“What?” Jonny asks.</p>
<p>“That’s supposed to be my line,” Patrick says. “I’m here to take care of you and you’re telling me it’ll be alright. I’m worthless.”</p>
<p>Jonny shifts, jerking forward. “Hey, cut that out.” </p>
<p>“It’s true.”</p>
<p>“It’s really fucking not,” Jonny says, fierce. “You’ve done so much. You <i>are</i> doing so much. Stop being hard on yourself.”</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t respond, too busy trying to hold himself in check.</p>
<p>“You hear me?”</p>
<p>He nods even though Jonny can’t see him. “I hear you.” His voice is shaking.</p>
<p>“Peeks?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“You doing alright?”</p>
<p>“I’m fine,” Patrick lies. “I’m good.”</p>
<p>Jonny shifts again. “Can I turn over and see for myself?”</p>
<p>“Nope.” </p>
<p>“Why not?” he asks, indignant. It’s the first thing to make Patrick smile all day.</p>
<p>Tightening his arms around Jonny, Patrick nuzzles his face into Jonny’s nape once more. “Because I’m holding you right now. Deal with it, Toews.”</p>
<p>Jonny sighs, put-out, and settles back onto his pillow. “Dr. Terry came by today. He said if I feel okay I should be cleared to come back and start practicing the last week of March.”</p>
<p>“You don’t think that’s too soon?” Patrick says. It’s much earlier than he was predicting based on how dizzy and tired Jonny was feeling just early last week.</p>
<p>“Not soon enough. I can’t sit around and wait anymore.” He says it with all of the stubbornness and bullheadedness in the world and Patrick’s somehow still surprised. He thought after the car accident Jonny wouldn’t want to push shit anymore until he was absolutely sure he was ready.</p>
<p>“You shouldn’t rush back just because you’re bored either.”</p>
<p>“I’m not,” Jonny says. “I’m ready.”</p>
<p>Patrick so badly wants to believe him.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>In the morning, Patrick wakes to Jonny spooned up behind him and a dick poking against his ass - a very large dick - a dick that Patrick’s missed.</p>
<p>He can tell right away Jonny’s awake too by the way he’s rubbing his lips over Patrick’s bare shoulder, his fingers flexing over Patrick’s hip, beneath his boxers.</p>
<p>“Morning,” Patrick hums, arching backwards and pushing his ass against Jonny’s cock.</p>
<p>Jonny places a wet kiss over his pulse point. “Can I fuck you?”</p>
<p>It takes Patrick’s brain a few hazy seconds to catch up with Jonny’s words, still caught in the dissipating sleep fog, but once he does he shivers immediately. <i>Fuck.</i> It’s been so long. Too long. And Patrick hasn’t wanted to push because getting off isn’t something to be worrying about while Jonny’s trying to heal from a head injury. There were other tools to use to get the job done, like his hand, or his fingers, or the plug. They might have paled in comparison to Jonny’s dick - to Jonny - but Patrick made do, and he’ll continue to if Jonny needs time.</p>
<p>“Are you sure?” he asks.</p>
<p>Jonny pauses. “Am I sure?” he laughs. “It’s been almost two months. Yeah, I’m fucking sure. Are you…? Do you want?”</p>
<p>“Yeah I want,” Patrick says, and grinds back against Jonny to prove his point. “I just don’t think you should rush if you aren’t feeling good.”</p>
<p>“Not rushing. I’m feeling great,” Jonny says and licks a line up to Patrick’s earlobe, sucks on it a little. “No dizziness, no headache, nothing. I’m good.”</p>
<p>Patrick takes a minute to consider his options. He could argue the issue to be certain Jonny isn’t telling any half truths in the hopes of getting his dick wet, but in the end he decides against it. There’s no point in pissing Jonny off and making himself go another day without when he can get Jonny on his back and do most of the work. And that’s exactly what he does, pulling away from Jonny’s grasp and telling him to get in the middle of the bed as he goes to search for the lube. He finds it in its usual spot in the nightstand, buried under a charger cord and a French non-fiction novel.</p>
<p>Jonny’s naked and propped up on some pillows when Patrick sheds his own boxers and climbs into his lap. He pops the cap on the lube and is about to squirt some onto his own fingers when Jonny catches him by the wrist, stopping him.</p>
<p>“Let me,” he says. He’s smiling a little, his eyes dark and heavy lidded, his lips red wet from where he’s just licked them. Patrick’s too weak at the thought of Jonny’s long, skillful fingers pushing up inside him to say no. He wants it too much.</p>
<p>“Okay,” he whispers, and hands over the tube.</p>
<p>Having Jonny’s fingers inside him, two to begin with and then three after, is like flipping a switch inside him that’s been off for far too long. And maybe that’s dramatic, maybe Patrick’s skin shouldn’t tingle and light up by Jonny’s fingers just grazing his prostate, but it does and it feels too fucking good for him to care if it shouldn’t.</p>
<p>As he slides down on Jonny’s big cock, he throws his head back with a whimper, Jonny’s hands gripping tightly around his waist and muttering curses that Patrick can barely hear.</p>
<p>They don’t talk as they move together, they don’t need to, sensation better than anything words can convey. Patrick sets a slow rhythm, undulating and rocking on top of Jonny, trying to take him as deep as he can, really grinding all the way down. Jonny’s hands migrate lower, grabbing at Patrick’s asscheeks and holding on. He urges Patrick faster, urges him closer, lifting his own legs so he can control a bit of the flow. Patrick would roll his eyes at Jonny’s dominance if he weren’t so busy trying not to come.</p>
<p>Wrapping his arms around Jonny’s shoulders, Patrick leans in and takes Jonny’s mouth in a soft kiss. It tastes stale at first, dry, and Patrick doesn’t give one single shit. He sucks on Jonny’s top lip, running his tongue over Jonny’s scar and pushing his tongue in, moaning as Jonny starts thrusting up into him with more and more intensity. </p>
<p>Patrick’s bouncing up and down on Jonny's cock, leaking all over Jonny’s chest and trying to hold himself back with all of his concentration that he doesn’t quite realize what’s happening when the world suddenly tilts and then he’s flat on his back with Jonny over him. They didn’t even separate. He sucks in a breath and blinks up at Jonny in amazement, trying to collect himself. Jesus Christ.</p>
<p>Jonny smiles wickedly down at him and pumps his dick into Patrick hard, once, twice. </p>
<p><i>“Holy motherfucking fuck,”</i> Patrick gasps and throws one arm out to grasp the sheets and the other to drag through his hair.</p>
<p>Jonny is so goddamn deep it almost feels like Patrick’s had the wind knocked out of him. He clenches around Jonny and watches his eyes roll back in his head, rhythm stuttering. Leaning down he kisses Patrick’s jaw, his chin, the corner of his mouth.</p>
<p>“You gotta come for me, baby,” he says. “Because I’m not gonna last much longer. You feel too good.” Then he bends Patrick’s legs back toward his chest and fucks him so fantastically Patrick spills without being touched.</p>
<p>Afterwards Jonny orders them breakfast and they eat veggie omelettes and drink disgusting kale smoothies while watching last night’s game highlights in bed.</p>
<p>“Can I fuck you?” Jonny asks when the rerun of NHL Tonight is over.</p>
<p>“Again?” Patrick asks.</p>
<p>Jonny nods.</p>
<p>“Right now?”</p>
<p>Jonny nods.</p>
<p>Patrick looks at the clock like he has somewhere to be. He doesn’t. There isn’t a game tonight or tomorrow. There’s no press related engagements he has to attend or charity gigs he needs to show up to, he has no other plans. He doesn’t want to make any other plans.</p>
<p>“Please,” Patrick says and turns onto his belly to hide his face.</p>
<p>Jonny gets behind him and pulls Patrick up on all fours, smooths a hand down his back to tilt his ass up. Then he leans over Patrick and says directly into his ear, “I want to fuck you slow this time, make it last, until you’re shaking. And after we’ve both come I want you on your back again so I can lick my come out of your tight, pretty hole.”</p>
<p>Patrick whines, he trembles. He feels like he’s floating the entire time Jonny’s inside of him, even as he comes while Jonny’s fist is jacking his cock. He doesn’t scream until Jonny puts his mouth on Patrick’s sensitive dick, mouth trailing down to his spent balls and to his tender, open hole, still clenching on the empty space Jonny left there.</p>
<p>“Still the best thing I’ve ever tasted, Peeks,” Jonny says and slides that long tongue of his inside of Patrick.</p>
<p>The feeling of being blown open is what causes Patrick to come the third time, his fingers tangled in Jonny’s hair and trying to keep him close, chanting his name like a prayer, <i>Jonny, Jonny, Jonny.</i></p>
<p>They both pass out and nap for a few hours once round two is officially finished. Patrick orders lunch when he wakes before Jonny, because he’ll be fucked if he’s eating kale more than once today, and not in the good way (ba dum chiss). He buys chicken curry and saag paneer with a side of jasmine rice for Jonny and some naan for himself.</p>
<p>The sheets are a mess, but they don’t leave the bed, eating naked while they watch a few Breaking Bad episodes.</p>
<p>“We should work out,” Jonny says when they’re done with lunch. He pats at his belly like it’s soft. It’s maybe a bit less toned after weeks of not playing and working out regularly, but it’s not soft. Not that Patrick would mind if it were. He remembers when they were younger and Jonny was much less defined overall than he is now, a little thicker around the edges.</p>
<p>He wasn’t bad to look at then either.</p>
<p>Patrick sets his empty plate on the floor and rolls over until his head is in Jonny’s lap. “Or we could take another nap? Yeah? A short nap? Just a tiny one?” He beams up at Jonny, batting his eyelashes.</p>
<p>Jonny barks out a laugh, his fingers twisting in Patrick’s messy curls. “C’mon, we can do a few sit-up and push-up reps. I won’t make you run.” He pulls Patrick up into a sitting position and then tugs him out from under the sheets and to the open space between Jonny’s bed and his closet.</p>
<p>“Ugh, fine,” Patrick groans. “But let me put my boxers on first.”</p>
<p>“Why?” Jonny asks. “You’ll just get them sweaty.”</p>
<p>“Because it feels weird to be naked and working out, my dick swaying in the wind.”</p>
<p>“Kind of liberating.” Jonny shrugs. “But suit yourself.”</p>
<p>He gets into the push-up position and begins, Patrick watching his straight back, the ridiculous curve of his ass, his cock hanging and brushing the ground as he moves up and down. It’s hypnotic. Patrick forgets what he’s doing for a moment, caught up in watching Jonny’s body move, his muscles shift, his skin turn slick and rosy red.</p>
<p>Shit, he’s getting a goddamn boner over it like they didn’t just fuck two hours ago. He needs some help.</p>
<p>“Peeks, let’s go,” Jonny pants, not even stopping as he turns to look over at Patrick.</p>
<p>It snaps Patrick out of his daze, has him scrambling to the foot of the bed where he last kicked off his boxers, slipping them on and then hurrying back over next to Jonny to begin his own repetition of push-ups. They end up doing five hundred each and then take a short break before switching to sit-ups. Jonny holds Patrick’s feet as Patrick takes his turn, trying not to laugh as Jonny makes goofy faces and tries to tickle the sensitive skin underneath Patrick’s knees with his free hand.</p>
<p>Patrick finishes his last one hundred reps and sits fully up only to wrap his arms around Jonny’s neck and pull him down into a sweaty kiss. They wrestle around on the carpet for a few minutes, long enough Patrick’s half chub is starting to turn into a full on erection when Jonny rolls to his back and orders Patrick to hold his ankles.</p>
<p>Watching Jonny’s naked abs flex as he moves, his bare cock lying between his spread thighs, is an exercise in control and every time Patrick’s eyes flick down to look Jonny’s smug grin stretches farther across his mouth. Patrick’s control? Not so great. What’s even wilder is somehow, some way Patrick’s leaking a small wet spot into his boxers by the time Jonny finishes up, a full one thousand sit-ups and his body covered in a sheen of glistening sweat.</p>
<p>“Let me suck your dick,” Patrick says, pushing his way between Jonny’s legs to rub himself over Jonny’s stupidly perfect everything.</p>
<p>“Shower first,” Jonny says and sits up, taking Patrick with him. For a second Patrick thinks he’s going to try to stand with Patrick in his lap and he’s ready to brace himself for it, his balls throbbing at the thought, but instead Jonny lifts Patrick out of his lap and sets him down on the carpet. He stands and holds a hand out for Patrick to help him up, tugging him into the bathroom.</p>
<p>They shower with the heat turned up until Jonny’s probably too hot. He doesn’t complain. In thanks Patrick washes himself fast and when Jonny’s done rinsing the soap from his own body, Patrick goes to his knees and takes Jonny’s cock into his mouth as far as he physically can. He slurps and sucks at the head until Jonny has to smack a hand against the marble shower wall to hold himself up, his other hand gently cupping around the back of Patrick’s head. He eases him forward just a bit, just enough that Patrick takes him to the back of his throat, but he doesn’t force Patrick to stay there and when Patrick begins to bob back and forth he brushes his thumb over Patrick’s cheekbone and says, “Your eyelashes are so long, baby. Fuck, you’re beautiful.”</p>
<p>When he comes, Patrick swallows it down, lapping at the droplets of water that have collected along the length of Jonny’s big dick that he couldn’t fit all the way inside his mouth.</p>
<p>He gets lost in it for a beat, licking Jonny all the way to the base until his nose is pressed to Jonny’s wet pubic hair. He presses a kiss below Jonny’s belly button and rests his forehead on Jonny’s hipbone, trying to catch his breath. It shouldn’t be this overwhelming after all this time. Patrick’s lost count of the number of blowjobs he’s given Jonny, but every time he gets on his knees, he wants to curl into himself. He’s not sure that feeling will ever go away and he doesn’t know how to handle it, or if he should just shove it into the ground and bury it.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Jonny says, getting his hands under Patrick’s biceps. “C’mere.” He pulls Patrick up and licks his way into Patrick’s mouth, kisses the taste of himself off of Patrick’s tongue as he slides two of his fingers into Patrick’s hole.</p>
<p>It’s good just like this, with just Jonny’s thigh pressing between Patrick’s legs and brushing over his sensitized balls, his fingers rubbing over Patrick’s even more sensitive insides. He could go off from this alone, even faster if Jonny were to wrap a loose fist around the head of his cock. What Patrick receives in return is Jonny going to his own knees and blowing Patrick until his legs are shaking and he comes so hard that his knees almost give out.</p>
<p>“You and um. That. And. Yeah,” Patrick mumbles, sex dumb. </p>
<p>“Good?” Jonny asks, his smile pleased and proud.</p>
<p>“So good,” Patrick pants, leaning on Jonny as he stands. </p>
<p>They only both get dried off and back to the bed because Jonny’s very strong and Patrick does his best to help out while still leaning on Jonny the entire time. He passes out as soon his head hits the pillow and sleeps for a good three hours, only waking up when a particularly loud commercial for Pizza Hut shakes him into consciousness. He blinks his eyes open a few times to see Jonny watching TV, naked and stretched out on his belly in the opposite direction.</p>
<p>“How long you been awake?” Patrick asks, yawning.</p>
<p>Jonny looks over his shoulder. “I don’t know. Maybe a half hour? I was thinking about dinner. What do you want?”</p>
<p>“What time is it?” he asks and sits up only to flop down on Jonny’s body, his head coming to rest on the round globe of Jonny’s very thick ass.</p>
<p>It’s a nice pillow, to be honest.</p>
<p>Jonny looks over his shoulder again and snorts. “It’s after five, almost six.”</p>
<p>“Holy shit. We fucked the entire day away,” Patrick giggles. He and Jonny have had a lot of sex in the last few years, but they’ve never fucked from day until night before. In retrospect that’s looking more like an oversight that should be corrected in the future.</p>
<p>“Not all day,” Jonny says, just to be contrary. “Dinner?”</p>
<p>“Pasta?” Patrick tries.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>“Pizza?”</p>
<p>Jonny gives him a <i>look</i>.</p>
<p>Patrick sighs. “Worth a shot. How about sashimi and spring rolls from that place on Michigan Avenue?”</p>
<p>“That works.” Jonny nods and picks up his phone beside him to make the call.</p>
<p>While he’s busy, Patrick makes himself at home on Jonny’s ass and even turns his head to nip at Jonny’s right cheek until he reaches behind himself to bat at Patrick’s head.</p>
<p>“Your ass is so plush,” Patrick says when Jonny’s off the phone.</p>
<p>“Thanks? I guess.”</p>
<p>“Have you ever had a tongue in there?” he asks, biting at his bottom lip. “Ever been rimmed before?”</p>
<p>Jonny doesn’t turn around, attention focused back on the television as the Deadliest Catch crew try to sail the turbulent seas during a terrifying storm. “Yeah, it was alright.”</p>
<p>The answer shocks Patrick and he’s not exactly sure why. It makes sense Jonny would’ve tried it. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy to get hung up on what others think he should or shouldn’t do. Jonny’s never let anyone tell him how to be himself as long back as Patrick can remember. Even when people disagree with him and tell him he’s wrong, he usually chooses the path that he was going to take anyway. He’s too stubborn and full of conviction.</p>
<p>Patrick didn’t know his path included letting another - letting someone - touch him there. He rolls the thought around in his brain for a while, trying to get to a place with it that doesn’t make his skin itch. It never comes.</p>
<p>“What about a dick?” he asks, staring down at the floor.</p>
<p>Jonny sits up and turns, his expression pensive. “Yeah, that too. Didn’t do much for me.” He pauses and looks over Patrick’s face like he’s searching for something. “Why? You thinking about fucking me, Kaner?”</p>
<p>It’s dumb that Patrick should feel nervous all of sudden. He lifts the dirty top sheet next to him and pulls it over his body, fingers twisting around the fabric. “The thought has crossed my mind once or twice.” He chews at the inside of his cheek. In for a penny, in for a pound, as they say. Patrick’s not sure what the hell that means, but it feels appropriate here. “Or a hundred times. Usually when I’m rubbing one out.”</p>
<p>“And?” Jonny asks. He isn’t giving away anything.</p>
<p>“And,” Patrick shrugs. “It’s a pretty hot thought, you on top of me, riding me real good.” He digs a hand into his hair and pulls a little, obscuring his face from Jonny’s view. “Until...until it flips and you move off me only to spread my legs apart and fuck your big cock in me. That’s usually the point when I come all over myself.”</p>
<p>He wants to pull the sheet over his head and melt into the bed. He wants to not have just said everything he said.</p>
<p>But he can’t take it back now.</p>
<p>Patrick glances up to see Jonny staring at him intently, his dark eyes sharp and his mouth soft. He reaches out and places his hand on Patrick’s kneecap, slides it down to his calf and his ankle, gripping it there.</p>
<p>“You like me on top,” Jonny states.</p>
<p>He can’t deny it. “I guess.”</p>
<p>Jonny shakes his head. “It wasn’t a question.”</p>
<p>Patrick groans, grabbing the pillow behind him and flinging it at Jonny’s head. Of course Jonny catches it and throws it to the side. He pulls the sheet back and crawls up the bed until he’s hovering over Patrick, urging him on his back so Jonny can cover him with his body.</p>
<p>“You’re unbearable. I want you to know that,” Patrick says to Jonny’s neck.</p>
<p>“So you don’t want me to spread your legs apart and fuck my big, huge cock into you?” Jonny asks, tilting his head back so he can catch Patrick’s eyes.</p>
<p>The tips of Patrick’s ears are on fire, the apples of his cheeks burning hot too. Fuck, why did he let Jonny trap him here?</p>
<p>“I didn’t say huge,” Patrick counters.</p>
<p>“You were thinking it.”</p>
<p>Patrick clamps his eyes shut and shudders as he spreads his legs, feeling Jonny’s thick thighs settle between them. “I hate you.”</p>
<p>“Is that a no?” Jonny manages to sound smug as well as earnest which is a real accomplishment for him.</p>
<p>They’re grinding against each other now, dicks miraculously hard and ready to go for a fifth round today. The food will be arriving soon, probably too soon to get a good fuck in, but Patrick’s hole is already clenching down at the thought of Jonny pushing inside of him, of Jonny taking him apart. This isn’t the direction that conversation was supposed to take and yet he wants it and he shouldn’t want it - not this much.</p>
<p>“Where’s the lube?” he says, desperate to stop his racing mind. If Jonny’s fucking him he doesn’t have to think about it, he doesn’t have to want it because it’s happening. </p>
<p>
  <i>Please.</i>
</p>
<p>He whimpers and throws an arm over his eyes as Jonny feeds lube into his tender, oversensitized hole. The sting burns, more than it ever has before, and he doesn’t give a single shit.</p>
<p>“If you want to try fucking me sometime we can try it,” Jonny says as he begins to slide his cock all the way inside of Patrick, making them both moan. “But I doubt it’d ever be better than this. This is perfect.”</p>
<p>“Perfect,” Patrick agrees on the end of a soul shattering cry.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Two weeks later they’re naked and lounging around in Patrick’s bed after a workout, three days before playoffs begin. The Lakers game is on and Patrick’s watching - okay, well - he’s half watching as Jonny’s stretched out on his belly, reading on his phone. The same position he was in the last time Patrick was admiring his ass, when Jonny had said if Patrick wanted to try they could.</p>
<p>He doesn’t let himself think about it too long, just crawls between Jonny’s legs, asks him if it’s okay, and proceeds to lick him out for a good twenty minutes.</p>
<p>It’s different, but not in a bad way. The taste dark and musky, the tight furl of Jonny’s wet hole more firm than he expected and slick with spit as Patrick licks him up. He’s never tried this before, even if the girls he’s been with have always given his oral skills an A with flying colors. Jonny isn’t exactly unenthusiastic, but he’s much less vocal, only humming every now and then as he stays pleasingly pliant. </p>
<p>Patrick works at him for a while, waiting for the moment where Jonny turns boneless and comes, like Patrick does when Jonny’s eating him out. It doesn’t happen. And while Patrick’s hard as a rock, the whole ordeal has him less eager to put his dick in Jonny’s ass than he imagined and more for Jonny’s tongue to be licking him out in return. </p>
<p>It wasn’t supposed to be like this, it wasn’t supposed to make him want it <i>more</i>.</p>
<p>He groans and rolls off of Jonny in frustration, shoving his face into the mattress. There’s something significant broken inside of him. That’s the only answer that makes sense.</p>
<p>Men want to fuck. That’s part of being a man. If he doesn’t want - if he wants it the other way around - who is he?</p>
<p>Patrick presses his face harder into the mattress and tries not to scream.</p>
<p>
  <i>Don’t be that guy.</i>
</p>
<p>Beside him he can feel Jonny shift on the bed, a warm hand coming to rest along his back, rubbing up and down his spine in slow circles.</p>
<p>“What’s wrong?” Jonny asks softly.</p>
<p>“Nothing,” Patrick mumbles against his three hundred dollar black Egyptian cotton sheets.</p>
<p>Jonny pulls Patrick around until he’s flat on his back, Jonny next to him, trailing fingers from the center of his chest to his belly and over his dick.</p>
<p>“You’re hard as a rock, baby, but you look pissed off. Tell me what’s going on?” he says. He forms a loose fist around the base of Patrick’s dick and slides it up to the head, presses his thumb along the most sensitive vein and the frenulum. His other hand is already between Patrick’s legs, thumb dipping into his crease to brush over his hole. Patrick’s hips automatically jerk upwards, wanting more.</p>
<p>“I...fuck,” says Patrick, his throat thick and pulse racing. “Want you inside me.”</p>
<p>He shouldn’t. </p>
<p>Jonny nuzzles his nose against Patrick’s temple. “That’s not a bad thing.”</p>
<p>
  <i>It is.</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick turns his head and catches Jonny’s mouth with his own, arms reaching out to pull Jonny on top of him as they suck the breath from each other’s lungs. When he’s so lightheaded he can’t remember what he was thinking, he says, “Want your mouth and your fingers and your cock.”</p>
<p>“All at once or…”Jonny asks with a devastating smile.</p>
<p>It’s too much to have this and he doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s the yellow, still sky before a ruinous storm, he’s that deadly quiet before the cracking thunder. He’s a complete fucking mess and he’s going to destroy everything.</p>
<p>“Jonny,” he breathes as he spreads his legs. “I shouldn’t. Shouldn’t want it like this.”</p>
<p>Jonny’s kissing his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, making Patrick’s skin prickle with goosebumps. “Says who?”</p>
<p>“Everyone.”</p>
<p>The kissing stops and Patrick blinks his eyes open. He didn’t even realize he’d shut them, but when he looks up Jonny’s staring at him like he usually is, watching him, studying him. Sometimes Patrick doesn’t know if Jonny’s looking at him or into him, if he’s seeing something Patrick can’t even see. It terrifies him. He has to turn his eyes away.</p>
<p>Jonny’s palm cups his face, thumb touching Patrick’s bottom lip almost reverently. “That’s not true and even if it was? To hell with everyone. It’s only you and me here.” </p>
<p>Patrick wraps his legs around Jonny’s waist, his arms around Jonny’s shoulders, draws him all the way down until he’s leaning his full body weight on top of him. It isn’t exactly easy to breathe, but Patrick doesn’t care. “No one else.”</p>
<p>“No one else,” Jonny repeats. “So they don’t matter. What you want matters. What I want matters. And you know what I want?”</p>
<p>“What?” Patrick whispers, teeth biting into his bottom lip, fists clenched and eyes screwed shut.</p>
<p>Jonny presses their foreheads together. “I want to be inside you too.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>In one word the playoffs are: horrible. Horrific might be a better fit. Disastrous. Terrible. Awful. Crushing.</p>
<p>Almost every game goes into overtime and the Hawks struggle every game just to keep their heads above water. Q constantly switches the lines around, Patrick’s line a revolving door of centers that are never Jonny, and pushing Patrick to take face-offs he can’t seem to win. The defense is slow, Jonny lied about being ready to play, and the Coyotes goalie, Mike Smith, is standing on his goddamn head every game.</p>
<p>They went in with a few disadvantages and came out torn apart.</p>
<p>Game six is a four to zero shutout in their own fucking house.</p>
<p>It’s embarrassing. It’s worse than last year by a margin so big Patrick can’t even count it.</p>
<p>“There’s always next year,” he tells the beats during his season exit interview.</p>
<p>Next year feels impossibly far away.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Patrick spends the ensuing week’s post-playoffs implosion moping around his apartment and listening to Jonny make plans for his summer. Apparently he’s going to Brazil, Paraguay, and Uruguay with Dan and a couple of his Canadian buddies. Sounds fun. </p>
<p>Not that Patrick wants to hang with Dan, but like, an invite still would’ve been nice, even if he would’ve declined. </p>
<p>Jonny never asks.</p>
<p>They fuck every day until Jonny leaves to go visit his parents in Winnipeg. Patrick isn’t invited to come with him then either, but that one Patrick understands. Family time and friend time are different. He just thought him and Jonny were the kinds of friends who weren’t bound to the city limits of Chicago.</p>
<p>It doesn’t matter. Fuck Jonny anyway, Patrick’s still pissed at him for rushing back to hockey when he wasn’t ready. He’s so full of shit.</p>
<p>And Patrick might still be dripping his come when Jonny walks out of Patrick’s place on a Tuesday morning to leave for the airport, but it doesn’t mean Patrick has to wait around for him.</p>
<p>He calls up Mike and asks what his plans are for next week. Then he calls Spuzz.</p>
<p>“I might have a few ideas,” Spuzz says. “How soon can you get back to Buffalo?”</p>
<p>“Today or tomorrow,” Patrick says.</p>
<p>“Sweet,” Spuzz laughs. </p>
<p>It takes him less than twelve hours to pack and fly back to Buffalo, drop his things off at his house, and be in a bar drinking down five beers with Spuzz, Josh, and Matty.</p>
<p>It’s hard to remember much of the next few days, but that’s a good thing, Patrick doesn’t want to remember, he doesn’t want to think or answer his phone or do anything but get absolutely, disgustingly wasted.</p>
<p>At some point he ends up buying a few plane tickets to Madison, Wisconsin on the advice of Spuzz who explains there’s a huge Greek life rager at the U of W. They drink on the plane and take a cab to their hotel. They drink at the hotel. They take a break to eat and then another cab over to campus.</p>
<p>There’s so many people around it’s difficult to know if he’s talking to the same person for any length of time. They all hand him cups of beer and take pictures with him, touching him, trying to be his friend.</p>
<p>He throws up in a bush and drinks some more. </p>
<p>They lose Spuzz in the fray, only to find him later hitting on three blonde sorority sisters. One of them tries to convince Patrick to take her back to his hotel room, promising to give him the best blow job of his life.</p>
<p>It only makes him think of Jonny.</p>
<p>He tells her <i>maybe later</i>, to not hurt her feelings, and walks away the second she’s distracted in search of more alcohol. It’s not hard to find.</p>
<p>She was pretty in a fake tan kind of way, her tits perky, and her smile pristinely white. Her name was probably Kayleigh or McKenna and Patrick could’ve fucked her if he asked nicely enough, he thinks.</p>
<p>Instead he drinks another beer and walks with Matty to some bar a few blocks over. The jukebox is playing Paint It, Black and Patrick tries to shut out the image of Jonny having it on in his car every time they drove to the UC for a playoff game that they ended up losing. He pulls his phone out of his pocket when Matty goes to take a piss. From behind him he thinks he hears someone taking pictures of him, he can’t be sure.</p>
<p>He doesn’t give it much thought when Jonny’s the first name he pulls up and starts texting. Jonny probably won’t even get these so it’s whatever. He’s basically talking to himself.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Hey. Hey. Hey. Heyheyheyheyhey</i>
</p>
<p>Five minutes pass and Patrick feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. He pulls it out to check who’s messaging him.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Lol hey you. What’s up?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> IM DRUKN</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> DURNK</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> DRUNK</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> I can see that. Where are you?</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick looks around him like he’s expecting to find something and forgets what he’s looking for halfway through.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Bar</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> What bar?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Madson Wisssssconsen</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> What the fuck are you doing up there?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Matt n Spuzzz</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> …</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick laughs. He can feel Jonny’s annoyance all the way from Canada.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Wish yu wre here</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Me too.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Miss ur cock </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Want inside me</i>
</p>
<p><i><b>Jonny:</b> Jesus Christ</i> </p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Dont wnat jesus want yuo</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Come to Winnipeg and you can have me.</i>
</p>
<p><i>You should’ve invited me</i>, he starts to type out, a couple letters missing and in the wrong place, then deletes it.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Want nwow</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Where’s Mike?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Idk</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> He’s not with you?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Somwherrre</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Baby, text me Mike’s number. Or Matt’s. Anyone but Spuzz please.</i>
</p>
<p>He’s not exactly sure where Spuzz even is, they lost him again about an hour ago. He might’ve made his way back to the hotel or into some sorority girl’s bed. Or he might be passed out in a ditch somewhere. All of the above are possible with Spuzz.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Y?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> I want to make sure someone’s watching out for you.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> M fine</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Please just text me his number.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> K</i>
</p>
<p>He waits for Matty to return because he can’t remember Matty’s number at the moment and even holding his head upright is starting to become a trial. Patrick rests his arms on the bar and his head on his arms. He’s just going to close his eyes for a few minutes and that’s it. Just a few minutes.</p>
<p>When he wakes up hours later he’s back at the hotel and so hungover he has to puke four times and sleep another hour on the cool tiled bathroom floor before he’s able to even consider standing again. By the time he checks his phone he has so many missed calls and text messages he can feel dread like ice slide down his back.</p>
<p>That’s when he sees the link to the Deadspin post Stan Bowman sent him with a follow up message to call him ASAP.</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t even need to click on the article to know whatever it includes means he’s severely and unequivocally fucked up.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Chapter 12</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2012</b>
</p>
<p>Two days after the Madison debacle Patrick wakes up in his house in Buffalo still feeling semi-hungover and sick to his stomach. He’s going to have to talk to Stan Bowman and John McDonough later this afternoon in a conference call, and his parents are expecting him over for breakfast in an hour for what is probably going to be the chewing out of a lifetime.</p>
<p>He promised them after 2009 there wouldn’t be any more incidents. He promised them he’d drink responsibly and follow the rules and not do anything to jeopardize his career or embarrass the family. And now he’s fucked it all up. Again.</p>
<p>Patrick rolls over and grabs his phone from the nightstand, unplugs it from his charging cord and checks his messages. One from his mom reminding him about breakfast, one from Jess checking if he’s okay, two from Stan making sure he knows about the conference call time, and at least a dozen more from other friends and friends of friends asking him about Madison, asking about the Hawks, asking about shit Patrick doesn’t care to answer or acknowledge.</p>
<p>He ignores them all and scrolls down to find his text thread from Jonny. He doesn’t reread the mortifying drunk texts he sent Jonny the day of the party, but he does reread the ones after.</p>
<p>
  <i>4:31 PM<br/>
<b>Jonny:</b> Kaner?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>4:49 PM<br/>
<b>Jonny:</b> Hello?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>5:26 PM<br/>
<b>Jonny:</b> ???????</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>7:15 PM<br/>
<b>Jonny:</b> Patrick what the fuck? Answer me!</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>8:59 PM<br/>
<b>Jonny:</b> Are you okay? I’m about to get in my car and drive down there ANSWER ME </i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>12:04 AM<br/>
<b>Jonny:</b> I need you to call me back</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>3:16 AM<br/>
<b>Jonny:</b> Baby please</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>6:20 AM<br/>
<b>Jonny:</b> Fuck it I’m calling Erica and then the cops</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>10:52 AM<br/>
<b>Jonny:</b> CALL ME BACKGODAMMITPATIRKC</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>3:09 PM<br/>
<b>Patrick:</b> Passed out. Sorry.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>3:25PM<br/>
<b>Jonny:</b> Are you okay? Do I need to come get you? Where are you?</i>
</p>
<p>It’s almost forty-eight hours later and Patrick still hasn’t responded to his last text. He’s not sure what to say. He’s fine, but he’s not. He wants to be alone, but he doesn’t. He wishes he could rewind his life back to January, back before Jonny got his concussion, before the losing streaks, before the car accident, before the first round burn out, before Madison, before all of his fuck ups.</p>
<p>He can’t.</p>
<p>He can’t and he doesn’t know how to explain it to Jonny, to help him understand.</p>
<p>Instead he replies: <i>I’m fine. In Buffalo. No worries.</i> And then he gets out of bed to take a shower.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>There’s a knock on Patrick’s door by early evening and Patrick gets up to answer it. He knows it’s not a stranger because they’d have to know his code to get through the gate, but that doesn’t mean much these days with how often he’s given the code out. He should maybe change it and rethink giving out his personal info so liberally in the future. Probably.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Erica says on the other side of the door. She smiles big and bright, her teeth extra white against her summer tan and her dark blue sundress. It looks forced the longer she holds it on her face and when Patrick doesn’t return the smile, she lets it drop.</p>
<p>“Hey,” he mumbles and steps back to let her in.</p>
<p>As they walk to the living room, he lets out a sigh, waiting for Erica to call him a dumbass or tell him how disappointing he is as a human being. He’s so braced for it that when it doesn’t come he feels an itching kind of annoyance gnaw at him. Flopping down on his couch, he looks over at where Erica’s still standing, twirling the thin strap of her leather purse around her hand.</p>
<p>“Did Mom and Dad send you over to lecture me?” Patrick asks. “Because I just got through a two-hour conversation this morning with them and then had to do it all over again with Bowman and McDonough reaming my ass out so I’m all good. I fucked up, big. I got it.”</p>
<p>Silence follows, Erica’s brows knitting as she frowns, but she isn’t speaking and it bothers Patrick more than if she’d burst into his house and started ranting at him.</p>
<p><i>“What?”</i> he hisses.</p>
<p>Erica’s eyes widen, like she’s surprised by his outburst. “I’m just here to check on you. Jacks wanted to come see you, she’s been missing you bad lately. I told her maybe now isn’t the right time. Jess is worried sick since you haven’t been returning her calls.” She pauses and crosses her arms over her chest. “Like, you might be the center of the world but there <i>are</i> other people in this family, okay?”</p>
<p>Patrick feels himself deflate at her pointed glare and cutting, if true, words. He sinks back into the couch and nods, then watches her settle on the other end of the couch from him.</p>
<p>“Jacks can come over. We can swim,” he says.</p>
<p>Erica slips out of her sandals and folds her legs under her like she used to do as a kid. “I’ll let her know.”</p>
<p>“No, I’ll call. Jess too.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” she says.</p>
<p>Patrick turns on the TV and flips channels for a while until he lands on one of the NBC sports channels showing diving qualifiers for the upcoming summer Olympics in July. When they were in high school, Patrick remembers talking to Erica on the phone from his billet house in Michigan about how she was going to try out for the swim team. She’d ended up diving instead and liked it so much she did it throughout her first two years of college until shoulder problems ended her ability to compete. She’d never seemed as distraught about having to walk away from it as Patrick figured she might be, but then, all he had to measure it by were his own feelings in regards to the idea of losing hockey.</p>
<p>He wonders now if seeing stuff like this bothers her at all and he offers her the remote in case she wants to change the channel.</p>
<p>“I’m good,” she says simply and Patrick drops the remote onto the open cushion between them where his phone is also sitting.</p>
<p>“Hungry?” he asks a few minutes later.</p>
<p>“Sure.”</p>
<p>“Pizza?”</p>
<p>“I’m on a no carb diet this summer,” she says.</p>
<p>Patrick groans. It’s the same shit every year. They gain two pounds and think they’re fat when every woman in his family is as thin as a board. He wishes they wouldn’t worry about it. “Oh my God.”</p>
<p>Erica laughs, rolling her eyes. “But I guess this can be my cheat day.”</p>
<p>He doesn’t give her time to second guess her decision and calls in their delivery order before she can change her mind. They watch more diving waiting for it to arrive, Erica critiquing the way a few of the divers’ feet are pointed, as Patrick begins to finally unclench his jaw for the first time in days.</p>
<p>A half hour later, he’s in the middle of checking his fantasy basketball team when the doorbell rings. He closes out of the app and leaves his phone on the couch as he goes to pay for the food.</p>
<p>“I think the pizza guy almost pissed himself when he saw I gave him a two hundred dollar tip,” Patrick snorts as he walks back into the room.</p>
<p>Erica’s sitting at the edge of the couch with a startled expression on her face. “Pat?”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“You got a message,” she says, quietly.</p>
<p>It’s only then that Patrick realizes she’s got his phone in the palm of her hand, his text message app open.</p>
<p>He drops the pizza boxes on the coffee table and rips the phone from her grasp. “Why are you holding my phone?”</p>
<p>“I...I thought it was Jess, so I picked it up,” she says, her eyes big and shocked.</p>
<p>Patrick feels his mouth go dry as he looks down at his phone and doesn’t see the most recent text he received, but the humiliating texts he sent Jonny from a few days prior, right there, staring back at him in all of their horrific glory.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Wish yu wre here</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Me too.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Miss ur cock</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Want inside me</i>
</p>
<p>Erica saw his texts. She read these texts and she knows Patrick sent them to Jonny - that he - that. </p>
<p>His hand begins to tremble as he tries to think. He can’t think, all he can do is scroll down to the most recent text.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> That’s it?</i>
</p>
<p>It’s difficult for Patrick to construct a coherent thought around what’s happening in front of him. All he knows is Jonny is mad at him and Erica is scared and it’s his fault. It’s always his fault.</p>
<p>But why? Why is it always his fault? Why can’t he go out drinking with his friends if he wants? Why can’t he sleep with who he wants? Why can’t people respect his goddamn privacy and just let things that aren’t their business alone?</p>
<p>Why can’t everyone just leave him the fuck alone?!</p>
<p>“Don’t fucking touch my phone,” he snaps out, at the end of his rope.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry.” Erica drops her arm and wraps it around her middle. “Are you and Jonny…”</p>
<p>“Are we what?” Patrick says, standing rigid in front of her. He’s holding onto his phone so hard it’s making the bones in his hand ache.</p>
<p>Erica takes a step forward, her expression shifting into something sad, and maybe that’s even worse. “You can tell me.”</p>
<p>“Tell you what?”</p>
<p>“Patty.”</p>
<p>He can’t do this. Not right now. Not with everything else going on. He can’t. He can’t. He can’t.</p>
<p>“Tell you what, <i>Erica</i>?” he barks.</p>
<p>She jumps back, blinking. The moment hangs thick in the air like it’s stuck the way a bent nail in wood doesn’t want to be pulled free, like it can only be wedged out with the end of a hammer.</p>
<p>Neither of them reach for the hammer, not at first, just staring at one another and not speaking, this gulf between them that Patrick wants to make an entire ocean. When Erica eventually opens her mouth to speak, Patrick’s phone begins to ring. It’s John McDonough. </p>
<p>Fucking fantastic.</p>
<p>“I have to take this,” Patrick says, turning. “Have pizza if you want or whatever.”</p>
<p>He leaves the room and goes upstairs and talks to McDonough about returning to Chicago for the summer to stay out of trouble. He waits until he hears Erica’s car drive out past his gate before he goes downstairs again.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Three days later, Patrick’s plane lands in O’Hare Airport. Sharpy’s there waiting for him in baggage claim. </p>
<p>He expects some smartass remark aimed at him the second he steps within hearing range of Sharpy, but what he gets instead is a swift bear hug and a quick knuckle rubbing into his skull.</p>
<p>“Hey, bud,” Sharpy says, easy. “How ya doin’?”</p>
<p>Patrick huffs out a tired laugh. “Oh, fantastic. Can’t you tell?”</p>
<p>“I can tell you look like shit,” he says. And there it is, the smartass comment. “Come on, you’re coming home with me. Abby wants to make you dinner.”</p>
<p>For a minute Patrick considers arguing, but he realizes it’s futile if Abby’s made up her mind and besides, what does he have waiting for him in his apartment? A whole lot of nothing.</p>
<p>“What are we having?” Patrick asks, retrieving his luggage off of his assigned conveyor belt. He follows Sharpy to the parking garage.</p>
<p>“Something with lemon, avocado, shrimp and steak, I think. All I know is I’m on grill duty.”</p>
<p>Patrick hums. “Sounds good.”</p>
<p>They drive for a while until they get stuck in gridlock on the Dan Ryan expressway. Flying in at four in the afternoon was admittedly not Patrick’s finest decision, but after everything with Erica, his parents, and Madison, he just wanted out as quickly as possible. He fiddles with the radio a little until Sharpy bats his hand away and turns it back to his lameass country music.</p>
<p>“You hear from Tazer?” Sharpy asks.</p>
<p>Patrick looks out the window. “Not really.”</p>
<p>“Everything okay between you two?”</p>
<p>“Why?”</p>
<p>Sharpy smiles knowingly, which tells Patrick that whatever he’s been trying to keep to quiet hasn’t quite worked. “He’s been calling me for updates on you. He seems worried.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, well,” Patrick murmurs, leaning against the door. He rests his head against the glass and watches the cars inch forward beside him. In a red Cadillac next to them, there’s a black and white husky with her head hanging out of the open window, tongue lolling to the side. She looks around restlessly like she’s ready for the car to be moving again and Patrick relates.</p>
<p>“Well, what?”</p>
<p>Patrick shrugs. “Figures he’d be mad at me too. Everyone else is.”</p>
<p>Sharpy sighs one of those parent sighs. It’s unfair, Patrick thinks, that the dude just became a father this past December, and yet he’s already acting like he’s an expert on something he’s only been doing for five minutes. He reaches and claps Patrick on the shoulder, squeezes once, and lets go. “Stop fucking pouting, kid. It’s gonna be fine. It’s the summer, plenty of time for people to forget everything by next season. And call Tazer so he gets off my back, okay?”</p>
<p>“Okay,” Patrick says.</p>
<p>He doesn’t think about their talk much for the rest of the night, too busy eating Abby’s amazing cooking and drinking fancy wine he doesn’t know the name of and probably won't ever have again. After dinner they take Maddie onto the back porch and turn on the white twinkle lights and Patrick sits on a blanket, playing with her while she crawls around trying to catch him. For dessert they eat a white chocolate raspberry cheesecake, Patrick feeding Maddie a bottle while Sharpy and Abby wash dishes, Sharpy distracting her every few minutes to twirl her around the kitchen.</p>
<p>It’s kind of disgusting, but Patrick can’t stop smiling.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>When he gets home later, he remembers his promise to Sharpy to call Jonny and smooth things over. He wants to talk to Jonny, is feeling pent up and adrift without him.</p>
<p>But.</p>
<p>The thought of facing Jonny only for Jonny to acknowledge just how much of a fuck-up Patrick really is has him on the verge of jumping out of a window. He’s already disappointed everyone else that matters to him. What if...if Jonny…</p>
<p>Patrick goes to bed instead and doesn’t leave his apartment but to meet with Bowman and McDonough once, receive his orders to lay low for the summer, and return home.</p>
<p>After two weeks, he finally picks up the phone and calls Mike.</p>
<p>“You want to come hang out with me in Chicago for a few days?”</p>
<p>“Hell yeah, man,” Mike says. “Let me book a flight.”</p>
<p>“I got you covered,” Patrick says. “Just let me know when you can get off work.”</p>
<p>Mike takes off the first week of June and flies in. Him and Patrick go to a few Cubs games, then rent a boat and take it out on Lake Michigan where Patrick only drinks three beers and doesn’t feel much of a buzz at all. They eat out at a few places Patrick likes and when Mike asks if they can go clubbing, Patrick tells him he can’t right now, not after Madison.</p>
<p>“No worries,” Mike says, wrapping his arm around Patrick’s shoulder as they’re strolling across the river bridge on their way to dinner.</p>
<p>It’s not that Patrick doesn’t get how some people are around him, that some of his friends hang out with him just because he’s a pro athlete with money and connections. He isn’t blind, no matter what Jonny believes. And he can tell when guys like Spuzz want him around more for the things he can do for them and less for who Patrick is as a person. It’s just. </p>
<p>It’s nice to have fun and it’s nice to have people want him around, even if they don’t really want <i>him</i>.</p>
<p>Mike isn’t like any of those people - he never has been. He’s always watched out for Patrick from the time they were kids, playing street hockey with twenty dollar rollerblades and bandaids all over their knees. Mike would be there if Patrick lost it all tomorrow and he’ll be there thirty years from now when Patrick’s an old man telling the same five stories over and over again about his glory days as an NHL player. </p>
<p>But not everyone has that same sense of loyalty.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>On Mike’s last day in Chicago Patrick receives a text from Jonny in the late afternoon.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> I’m back in Chicago can we talk?</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick smiles at seeing Jonny’s name flash across his phone screen and then reads the text again and feels his stomach drop.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Sure.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> When?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Whenever. I’m home.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Jonny:</b> Stick around then, I’m coming over.</i>
</p>
<p>He deserves whatever Jonny is going to say to him and yet he doesn’t know if he can handle hearing it, but he sucks in a sharp breath and types out his response anyway.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Okay.</i>
</p>
<p>Twenty minutes later he and Mike are playing the latest version of Halo when there’s a knock on Patrick’s door and for an instant Patrick considers making Mike answer it. He stands in front of the door, his hand on the knob and tries to force himself to breathe normally.</p>
<p>“Hi,” he says after he’s pulled the door open.</p>
<p>Jonny’s on the other side in a backwards cap, blue shorts, and a tank top with a bear on the front, golden-skinned and gorgeous. He isn’t smiling. “Can I come in?”</p>
<p>Patrick wants to absorb the sight of him for a minute or maybe ten, but he steps away to let Jonny walk in. He can tell Jonny already has about five different things percolating inside his brain that he wants to say, that he’s probably been holding back on saying until they were in person.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Patrick says and then cuts him off before he can speak again. “Mike’s here.”</p>
<p>As if he’s been summoned, Mike’s voice pops up from the other room. “Who’s here?”</p>
<p>“Tazer!” Patrick says.</p>
<p>Jonny’s face is unreadable as Patrick hears shuffling from the living room and then Mike appears from around the corner.</p>
<p>He walks up to Jonny and claps him on the arm, shakes his hand for a beat. “Hey, man! What’s up?”</p>
<p>“Not much,” Jonny says. “How have you been?”</p>
<p>“Pretty good. Got a raise at work. No complaints.” Mike shrugs.</p>
<p>“Nice,” Jonny says in that polite way he does during postgame interviews where he’s trying to come off like he’s at least not totally disinterested. “Congrats.”</p>
<p>They both look to Patrick as to what to do next, but Patrick doesn't even know what he wants, except that he doesn’t want Jonny to leave.</p>
<p>“If you want to stick around, we’re going to order some food, maybe watch a movie,” he says. “We’re playing a few rounds of Halo right now.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, man,” Mike adds. “Hang out for a while!” He bypasses them, patting Jonny on the arm again and goes in the direction of the kitchen.</p>
<p>Once they’re alone, Jonny turns a searching look on Patrick. “Do you want me to stay?”</p>
<p>Patrick clasps his hands together and begins tugging nervously at his fingers. He can’t quite make himself meet Jonny’s eyes so he looks over his shoulder at some middle distant point he’s not really able to focus on. “I do.”</p>
<p>There’s a silent beat and then Jonny says, “Okay, I’ll stay.”</p>
<p>A feeling coalesces within Patrick that Jonny’s about to step away and go into the living room and so Patrick stops him, catching the bottom of Jonny’s shirt and holding onto the hem. He ducks his head down. “Jonny. I…”</p>
<p>Now would be the time to apologize and try to atone for his fuck-ups and his disappearing act, for all the things he hasn’t said and can’t really explain, for this terrifying urgency tangled up inside his chest that he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with or how to keep calm. It’s pulsing inside of him, wanting to get out, and he knows once it’s free, it’ll blow up his entire life, it’ll ruin him.</p>
<p>
  <i>Don’t be that guy.</i>
</p>
<p>He can’t be that guy.</p>
<p>A hand gently cups Patrick’s face and tilts it up until he meets Jonny’s eyes. His dark, dark eyes that look back at Patrick with this kind of clutched open sorrow that’s seconds away from being shuttered closed.</p>
<p>Jonny's thumb rubs gently over Patrick’s cheek as they stare back at one another and Patrick doesn’t speak, can’t make himself say all of the things clogged up in his throat and finally the wrinkles in Jonny’s forehead smooth out and the window closes. It’s shut - the moment gone.</p>
<p>Jonny lets out a slow exhale, then nods, tugging Patrick amicably into his side. “C’mon, I’m about to kick your ass in Halo.”</p>
<p>“Have you ever played it before?” Patrick asks.</p>
<p>“Nope,” Jonny says, and Patrick chokes on his own laugh.</p>
<p>The three of them fuck around with Halo for the next hour until they get hungry and bicker over takeout options before finally choosing one to order from. After Jonny’s beaten Patrick for the fourth round Patrick hands over the controller to Mike while he takes a piss break. As he’s walking down the hall to return to the living room when he’s finished, he hears Jonny’s voice, low and hard-edged, and stops in his tracks.</p>
<p>“You said you’d keep me informed,” Jonny says, and he sounds angry. “What the fuck happened, man?”</p>
<p>“I wasn’t there, that’s what happened,” Mike says. “I had to work and Spuzz swooped in.”</p>
<p>There’s a huffed out, annoyed breath and then, “Can’t you put a leash on him or something? Jesus Christ.”</p>
<p>“I talked to him. It won’t be a problem again,” Mike says. He sounds calm, placating almost, but Patrick knows Mike’s always found Jonny a little intimidating in a way he’d never actually cop to, in a way most guys won’t because they hate how it makes them appear lesser.</p>
<p>“Just keep him away from Patrick,” Jonny bites out.</p>
<p>“I mean…” Mike tries.</p>
<p><i>“Mike,”</i> Jonny says, and there’s a long pause. Patrick can imagine the kind of glare he’s directing at Mike, the intensity and command there. It makes Patrick want to shiver just thinking about it. “Keep him away or I’ll keep him away.”</p>
<p>Patrick steps to the end of the hallway and peers around the corner to where he can see Mike nodding, solemn.</p>
<p>“I hear you,” Mike says, and he doesn’t look particularly happy, but he does seem contrite.</p>
<p>“Thank you,” Jonny says, his voice back to its usual tone. </p>
<p>Patrick joins them in the living room then, worried about leaving them alone for any longer than he already has. They forego video games for the rest of the night in favor of a movie and Mike produces a joint they share between them that relaxes the entire tense vibe floating through the air, leaving everything nicely chill and floaty.</p>
<p>Mike begs off watching a few rerun episodes of The Office in favor of heading to bed once the movie ends, but Jonny stays up with Patrick and they watch silently as Dwight tries to beat the company website to see who can sell more paper. Eventually Jonny falls asleep on the couch and that becomes more interesting to watch than whether or not Dwight succeeds in his goal. Patrick’s already seen the episode anyway.</p>
<p>Instead he watches the way the blue light from the television screen flickers across Jonny’s face and his closed eyelids, the way his mouth is very slightly dropped open and his chest rises and falls with each breath. And he thinks about why Jonny would want to keep tabs on him through Mike, why Mike would agree to it, why this would even be a conversation they’d ever end up having. Another three episodes of The Office play on until Michael Scott and Jim Halpert are wearing fake mustaches and invading the Utica branch of Dunder Mifflin. The only answer he can come up with, the only one that makes remotely any sense is that they both know Patrick’s a habitual fuck up and this is their solution to try to circumvent further trouble.</p>
<p>Patrick sleeps that night, but he doesn’t sleep well.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>In the morning, he drags himself into the kitchen to make some coffee and a smoothie and is surprised to see Jonny awake too, seated at the bar.</p>
<p>“Can I have some?” he asks.</p>
<p>“Sure,” Patrick says, yawning. “You want a smoothie too? I only have strawberry.”</p>
<p>“Protein powder?” Jonny mumbles, eyes still mostly closed and head resting on his left bicep, his arms folded on the bar.</p>
<p>Patrick wants to push his hand into Jonny’s hair and rub his head, touch a finger to his jaw. Jonny’s hair is long enough now it’s a little floppy all over and it looks so soft; every part of him is warm and inviting. He’s right there. Patrick could easily touch Jonny, have him. Instead he turns back to his cabinets and begins pulling out the ingredients he needs.</p>
<p>“I have to take Mike to the airport in a few hours, but I was thinking…”</p>
<p>“Yeah?”</p>
<p>“If you wanted to stick around, we could...” Patrick gestures with his hand, making a nonsensical circle that’s supposed to mean talk. “When I get back.”</p>
<p>Jonny seems to pick up what he’s putting down and nods, smiling from the corner of his mouth, his head still cocked to the side. “I want to.”</p>
<p>“Good,” Patrick breathes. </p>
<p>He drops Mike off at Midway before noon and circles back to his apartment, taking the long way and trying to form a defense in his head for when Jonny inevitably says Patrick isn’t worth his effort, energy, or time anymore, when he walks out and leaves Patrick alone with his failures.</p>
<p>It takes him almost an extra hour before he finally walks back through his door and once it’s shut, Jonny’s pushing him back against it and crushing their mouths together. They kiss and kiss and Patrick doesn’t know when he gets picked up off the ground and carried to his bed, or when they lose all of their clothes. It’s all a blur to Jonny’s mouth and hands all over his body, Jonny pushing his big dick inside of Patrick and fucking him until Patrick’s brain has melted out of his ears.</p>
<p>They don’t talk about anything important when it’s over and Patrick falls into a restless nap without meaning to. When he gets up, he expects Jonny to be gone and is surprised to find him in Patrick’s kitchen making them chicken marsala for dinner.</p>
<p>They eat at the bar and discuss the lockout rumors that have been swirling around for weeks now - months really, but no one was taking them seriously until the season officially ended.</p>
<p>Patrick waits for the conversation with Jonny to come.</p>
<p>He waits and waits, but he never brings it up and neither does Jonny. </p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The summer begins to feel like a series of false starts. Just as Jonny and he are beginning to find a rhythm of being in each other’s space again, Jonny has to fly off to New York for a week to meet with thirty other players and the NHLPA about this impending lockout situation. When he returns, Patrick’s family is in town for the Fourth of July celebrations.</p>
<p>It’s nice to talk to Jackie about her college plans and do his book club thing with Jess while Mom makes all of his favorite foods and Dad lovingly pesters him about how his wrist is doing. Erica is quieter than usual and Patrick doesn’t let himself think about it, doesn’t push her to talk, just acts like everything is normal. </p>
<p>It is normal. It’s fine. </p>
<p>Convention comes and goes, mostly without incident and with Patrick only having to make a few public apologies about Madison. The fans seem forgiving and no less excited to see him and he hopes Bowman, McDonough, and Rocky take that into consideration for the future, if his future with the Hawks is a thing that’s up in the air.</p>
<p>The last two weeks of July Patrick spends, on and off, at Jonny’s place. They fuck and play video games and watch dumb TV. Sometimes they order takeout and sometimes they brave the streets of Chicago and go out to eat. </p>
<p>It’s easier when he and Jonny are together with the boys, playing pool in Seabs’s basement, shooting the shit with Sharpy on his rooftop garden, or going out on the lake with Duncs and Shawzy. They don’t ask questions Patrick can’t answer, like his family, and they don’t touch him in a way that makes him want to lose himself, like Jonny. Zero expectations unless they’re out on the ice, and when they finally do get on the ice in August, it’s such a relief to have a purpose again, to have hockey back in his life, Patrick commits himself to giving 110% and nothing else.</p>
<p>The longer he doesn’t talk about Madison or the incident with Erica, the easier it becomes to not even consider talking about it, to just bury it down, down, down until he can ignore that it exists or how it makes him feel like curling up in a ball and disappearing.</p>
<p>He begins training and he begins training hard. Six-hour workouts every day from ice time to gym time to finding a better nutrition plan. Jonny’s more than happy to set Patrick up with his acquaintance Vicky, who specializes in creating diets to maximize energy and longevity for athletes across the board, and is willing to work with Patrick specifically to create a diet that’s catered to his needs. She gives Patrick a few books to read about eating sustainable foods, the power of vitamins, and the importance of clean water. It’s a lot to take in, to be honest, and Patrick feels over his head with pretty much every article or journal that Vicky recommends to him, but it’s also good to have a distraction and not have to think about how everything else in his life is slowly deteriorating.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Patrick isn’t sure how the pattern of stepping away begins, but he knows he’s the one that pulls the trigger to put it into motion.</p>
<p>It goes something like this: he wakes up, he goes to Johnny’s Ice House to skate, he skates with Jonny for an hour or two, they break for lunch and eat boring salads and grilled chicken, usually. Then they go to the gym, which includes a few hours of strength training, biking, yoga, and other assorted cardio. They go back to Jonny’s and shower. During their shared shower they usually end up swapping hand jobs or blow jobs, and then Jonny fucks him in bed and they nap. When they wake up they eat dinner, watch whatever mindless TV they can find and then they fuck again, sometimes with Patrick bent over the couch, sometimes with him riding Jonny on the loveseat, mostly with Jonny on top of him in bed, thrusting deep and slow while he kisses Patrick the entire time.</p>
<p>It’s always hard to breathe with the way Jonny kisses him, like he never wants to stop, like he could maybe do it for the rest of his life. Patrick knows that isn’t true, no one would ever - not with - anyway. But really, it’s even harder to breathe the second Jonny pulls free from Patrick’s body, and Patrick’s left there, empty, vulnerable, open. Jonny will try to draw Patrick back to him, encircle Patrick within his arms, but it’s like a lie.</p>
<p>Eventually this will end. It feels so inevitable now that Patrick’s ruined everything. He has to be good so the Hawks won’t trade him, he has to be good so he doesn’t make his family disappointed in him, he has to be good so he doesn’t lose hockey, or his career, or himself.</p>
<p>He can’t do it all and have what he wants. It’s a conflicting set of circumstances, and the only option is hockey. Hockey has been there since before Patrick can remember and hockey will be there even when people hate him, even if he has to leave, after the lockout, after Jonny. In the end it will only be Patrick and hockey.</p>
<p>There’s no choice to make. The choice was made a long time ago.</p>
<p>So Patrick stops staying over at Jonny’s place at night and he stops bringing Jonny over to his place to keep them from falling asleep in his own bed. </p>
<p>“You can stay,” Jonny says to him one night in late August. He’s in bed, naked, and with sweat drying on his body. His cock is still thick, but soft against his thigh, his cheeks flushed, and his hair in disarray. He looks so fucking hot Patrick wants to climb back on top of him.</p>
<p>Instead he reaches for his shorts he left at the foot of the bed.</p>
<p>“Don’t you have NHLPA shit to do early tomorrow?” Patrick asks. There’s his shirt by the dresser and his hat by the closet.</p>
<p>“It’ll only be a few hours. I’ll be back in time for lunch. We can try that new noodle place you’ve been bugging me about.”</p>
<p>Patrick shakes his head. “Gonna skate tomorrow and then hit the gym. So I’ll be up early anyway.”</p>
<p>“Then just stay and I’ll drive you?” Jonny says. His mouth turning downward.</p>
<p>Patrick runs a hand through his tangled hair and gets his fingers stuck in a few knotted curls. With a sigh he gives up and shoves his ball cap on his head, backwards.</p>
<p>“All of my stuff I need for skating is at my place. But we can get lunch when you’re done. Just text me.” He doesn’t give Jonny much of a chance to keep arguing as he slips out of his room with a quick wave and then out of Jonny’s apartment to his car in the underground garage.</p>
<p>Patrick’s forgotten the number of times he’s made an excuse to not stay over at Jonny’s only to go back to his own apartment and lie there awake for hours, unable to fall asleep. Maybe this is his punishment for being a piece of shit. Either way it feels like some kind of karma coming back to haunt him.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>In mid-September Jonny gathers the core together for breakfast at Seven Lions and tells Patrick and the rest of them the news.</p>
<p>“It’s happening,” he says, grim-faced. He’s barely touched his veggie omelet. </p>
<p>“Fuck,” Seabs hisses, dropping his fork onto his plate.</p>
<p>Duncs looks momentarily confused, still half-asleep. “What’s happening?” he asks. He’s got a mouthful of bacon and a fleck of chive is stuck in his beard.</p>
<p>“The lockout,” Jonny confirms, and Patrick knew it was coming, was bracing for it even, but it feels like a sickening punch to the throat regardless. “They’re already talking about canceling preseason. It won’t be official until tomorrow, but it’s definitely happening. I was informed last night.”</p>
<p>Hammer pulls out his phone and begins furiously texting someone, while Sharpy drops his head into his hands. “How long?” </p>
<p>“You want me to be optimistic or realistic?” Jonny asks.</p>
<p>“Both,” Seabs says.</p>
<p>Patrick knows as the other NHLPA rep for the Hawks that Seabs has been a part of some of these discussions, but he hasn’t been involved in every single one the way Jonny has as the primary rep, and therefore he hasn’t been privy to all of the information. He looks deeply unimpressed and displeased by this situation and, to be honest, Patrick agrees.</p>
<p>Pressing his lips together Jonny meets Seabs’ eyes head on. “November at the earliest, January if we’re lucky.”</p>
<p>“And if we’re not?” Sharpy asks.</p>
<p>“No hockey until fall 2013.”</p>
<p>“Jesus fucking Christ,” Seabs bites out. </p>
<p>A table of two parents and a kid glance over at their group curiously, but no one notices them, no one but Patrick. They pay and get up to go shortly after, having already finished their meal, and Patrick watches as the mom gathers the various belongings of the toddler and puts them away in the diaper bag as the husband leaves her there alone to walk out to the front of the building and light up a cigarette. The toddler pulls on her mom’s pant leg and then holds her arms up straight like she wants to be held, and eventually the mom gets everything put away, slipping the diaper bag and her purse over her shoulder, and then leans down to pick up her daughter. She looks exhausted and sad, and when she walks out to meet up with her husband he doesn’t offer to carry any of her bags or their kid.</p>
<p>In the end they walk off, out of step, and out of sight.</p>
<p>Seabs and Jonny are still discussing the lockout while Hammer, off of his phone now, is asking question after question. Sharpy’s stepped away to call Abby, Patrick assumes. Duncs is still eating.</p>
<p>He gets up and goes to the bathroom while no one is paying attention and locks himself in one of the stalls. It’s disgusting to sit on the toilet lid with his shorts on, but Patrick can’t be fucked to put down toilet paper while he’s trying to breathe, white noise rushing through his ears.</p>
<p>All of this time he kept hoping the lockout bullshit would resolve itself. He almost convinced himself to believe it because the alternative was too frightening. Now he’s stuck with a future where hockey is no longer a certainty.</p>
<p>The longest he’s ever gone without playing since he was a kid was his first season with the Hawks when they didn’t make the playoffs and he had to occupy his time from April until August with nothing to do. Four or five months. That was it and he was almost crawling the walls by the time he began skating in preparation for training camp.</p>
<p>He can’t do it again and not know when hockey will return, if it will return.</p>
<p>He can’t wait and wonder and live in the unknown for six months, or a year, or even longer.</p>
<p>
  <i>Fuck.</i>
</p>
<p>Wrapping his arms around his middle, Patrick tries to curl into himself as he takes in one long breath in through his nose and lets it out slow, slower, slowly through his mouth. In and out. Again. In and out.</p>
<p>The door to the bathroom opens.</p>
<p>“Peeks?” Jonny says. “You okay?”</p>
<p>“I’m,” Patrick starts and is horrified to hear his voice crack. He squeezes his eyes shut and swallows the lump in his throat. He pounds a fist against his thigh as he rolls his shoulders. “Yeah, I’m good. Be out in a minute.”</p>
<p>There’s a long silence where Patrick doesn’t hear any movement and he’s not sure if Jonny left or is still on the other side of the stall door. He waits another moment and just as he’s about to call out, the door to the bathroom opens once more and Patrick can hear the noise from the restaurant filter in. When Patrick finally exits the stall he’s alone again.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>He makes it until after five in the evening before he calls his mom. Which is twice as long as Patrick figured he’d make it on his drive home after breakfast.</p>
<p>“Hi, honey!” Mom says. “How are things?”</p>
<p>She sounds frazzled when she picks up the phone and Patrick remembers all of sudden that it’s Sunday and that means grilled chicken, baked potatoes, and caramel brownies. It’s a tradition that began when Patrick and his sisters were kids. They’d go to morning church and then spend the afternoon with his grandpa playing cards or mini golf in the backyard, or working on one of his many puzzles, until dinner time when he’d pack them all in his ancient, mint green Pontiac Bonneville Coupe and drive them home where they’d have fried chicken and buttery corn on the cob with mashed potatoes, and of course caramel brownies. Over the years, the fried chicken shifted into the healthier grilled option, the corn turned into baked broccoli or salad, but the brownies always stayed the same.</p>
<p>It makes Patrick acutely homesick to think about, the want to return to a time forever gone a physical ache.</p>
<p>“Mom,” he says and stops, unable to think of what to say.</p>
<p>She picks up on his pause right away, and whatever background noise that was present when she first answered is now quiet as he hears her move. “What’s wrong?”</p>
<p>Patrick imagines her stepping away from the kitchen and her array of spices, her chopping board and frozen chicken cutlets thawing in the sink, walking into the study down the hall where the family computer used to sit and where now hang several of Patrick’s old framed jerseys and Erica’s diving trophies, Jess’s writing certificates, and Jackie’s basketball medals.</p>
<p>Patrick scrubs a hand over his face. “The lockout. It’s gonna happen and I don’t. I can stay here and train, waiting for a season that might not ever start or I can go overseas. I don’t know what to do.”</p>
<p>“Well, let’s make a pros and cons list,” Mom says and he can already hear her pulling out the drawer where a notepad usually sits and clicking open a pen.</p>
<p>They spend the next half hour listing all of the reasons Patrick should stay in Chicago or go play overseas until they’ve exhausted every possible idea they can feasibly think of and the answer is overwhelmingly in favor of Patrick going.</p>
<p>He looks down at his own cons list he made, and stares at the only three things he could think of: <i>risk of injury right before the NHL returns, missing family and friends, Jonny.</i></p>
<p>The pros list is easily ten times as long and has very real and valid responses like getting to travel, playing actual hockey, experiencing a different league, and not sitting around for maybe the next year with nothing to do. It’s just. </p>
<p>Patrick looks at the cons of going again and his eyes halt over Jonny’s name.</p>
<p>He crosses it out.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The next day Patrick makes all of the necessary phone calls.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>With two weeks left to go before Patrick leaves for Switzerland, he receives a call from Bur asking him if he wants to play in a charity game with the guys from the 2010 Hawks championship team as a gift back for the fans. Patrick agrees before Bur can even finish with his whole spiel and the following Saturday he gets on the ice with Jonny and Sharpy to play a little hockey.</p>
<p>The Champs For Charity game is the most stress-free, relaxed, and fun hockey Patrick’s played in the last two years. No one really takes anything too seriously and Jonny won’t stop yanking on his jersey or poking Sharpy with his stick blade, pulling them both into hugs like he knows - like they all know - this will be the last time they’re on the ice together for a while. It makes sense Jonny will miss his buddies.</p>
<p>The crowd gets into it, cheering and hollering whenever a player scores or when Jonny gets a bunch of them together to do goofy shit like pretend to be bowling pins he can knock down with his imaginary bowling ball. It feels like they’re kids again for two brief hours, like this isn’t a business that’s controlled by old men in suits that can take it away whenever they want, but a game that anyone can play just for fun.</p>
<p>Patrick blinks the dust from his eyes as he says goodbye to Bur and Soupy, Brouwer and Skills, then spends a little more time with Hammer, who’s going back to Sweden, and Duncs who’s heading up to Thunder Bay until at least the New Year.</p>
<p>As he’s walking out with Jonny at the end of the day he tightens his hand around the strap of his gear bag and says, “You busy on Monday?”</p>
<p>“I have a meeting around noon, but otherwise no. What’s up?”</p>
<p>Patrick bites at his bottom lip. “I was thinking I could come over to your place and we could have dinner? Watch a movie maybe?”</p>
<p>Jonny’s eyebrows rise like he’s surprised by the question, a slow, pleased smile curling up the edges of his mouth. “You want to? Because you haven’t-”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Patrick says, cutting him off. “I mean, I know it’s been…” He’s not even sure what he wants to say, only that he can’t hear whatever Jonny was going to tell him, how Patrick is failing in his friendship with Jonny too. “But Monday?”</p>
<p>Jonny’s smile slides away into something like concern. “Is everything okay? Because the other day-”</p>
<p>“I’m good,” Patrick cuts in again. “No worries. I’ll see you Monday after five. Text me if something comes up.” He doesn’t give Jonny an opportunity to respond, taking off to the right and heading over to his car. He throws back a quick wave and leaves Jonny standing there looking on.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>That Monday, after having spent most of the weekend getting all of his affairs in order, Patrick shows up at Jonny’s door with his favorite takeout sushi and a six pack of some fancy IPA he’s seen Jonny drink before. Jonny lets him in and takes the bag, ushering him into the kitchen. They pull out plates and silverware from the cabinets as Patrick discreetly eyes Jonny’s soft-looking gray sweatpants and tissue-paper-thin white T-shirt, his feet predictably bare, his skin somehow still golden and smooth.</p>
<p>Patrick’s already pale as a ghost and fall just arrived. He’s bundled up in black sweats and a black hoodie, black socks to match, because it’s important to rock a cohesive look even when that look is all-dark loungewear.</p>
<p>He tries to not think about how this is his last night in Chicago for who knows how long and just stay in the moment with Jonny, but it’s difficult. They eat their sashimi and white tuna rolls, the tobiko, and ikura. Jonny puts on Lawless and Patrick does his best to follow the plot because he does like Tom Hardy and he’s been wanting to see this movie for a while. </p>
<p>However, sitting next to Jonny on the couch is distracting. Every time he shifts in his seat, the fabric of his sweatpants pulls across his thick thighs or his crotch, showing the outline of his cock. Patrick can’t be sure, but he thinks Jonny’s been half-hard ever since they finished eating and their legs naturally fell together, Patrick leaning into Jonny’s side. When Jonny’s big hand lands on Patrick’s knee and slides up his thigh, he knows where the rest of this night will go and has zero willpower to stop it.</p>
<p>Five minutes later Jonny’s hand is inside Patrick’s pants and cupping around his dick, and ten minutes after that, Patrick’s on all fours on Jonny’s bed with Jonny fucking into him hard and fast. Like all of the times before, it’s so good Patrick barely even needs to have his dick touched and he’s coming all over the mattress below him, moaning out his orgasm against his arm. He’s barely finished shuddering when Jonny flips him and slides back inside, fucking in slower now as he takes control of Patrick’s mouth with a bone-melting kiss.</p>
<p>Sometimes, in between the moments when Patrick’s too gone to think or feel or even exist, he has these tiny flickers of clarity where he wishes he didn’t want this so goddamn badly, where he could be normal and turn it off, and move on. But then Jonny’s big cock rubs over his prostate and Jonny kisses his neck and says, “Baby, you feel so good,” and Patrick dissolves all over again.</p>
<p>“Come inside me,” he tells Jonny, on the edge of another orgasm, even after just a few minutes. “Wanna feel it.”</p>
<p>“Anything,” Jonny pants, pressing their foreheads together. “Anything you want.”</p>
<p>Patrick comes on the end of a long sob. </p>
<p>He thinks he might’ve floated out of his body for a few minutes, because when he blinks his eyes open, Jonny’s groaning and shaking on top of him, murmuring soft words into Patrick’s neck that Patrick can’t decipher.</p>
<p>After they lay together in silence, their chests rising and falling in time as Jonny turns on his side and wraps his arm around Patrick’s middle, kisses Patrick’s bare shoulder.</p>
<p>“I was thinking about the next few months,” Jonny says softly, almost a whisper. “I have all of this NHLPA shit to do, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be time for day trips, maybe some weekend traveling. What do you think?”</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t know what he thinks. He’s not sure why Jonny’s even asking him about plans he won’t be included in. His higher brain function isn’t back to full capacity yet and he’s having a hard time figuring out if he should be casual or enthusiastic about Jonny’s immediate future with, well, probably someone else. Does Jonny want travel suggestions? Does he want Patrick’s blessing? It’s too much to process.</p>
<p>“I don’t know,” Patrick says, sitting up slowly. His limbs feel like jelly in the best way and his body wants to sink into it and sleep for a thousand years. He has to fight against it to stay upright. “I’m sure you’ll have fun. Fight the good fight for the rest of us and all that.”</p>
<p>“Me?” Jonny asks, brow furrowing. He looks away and back at Patrick again like he’s missed a step, fallen off course somewhere. “I - what? Where are you going?”</p>
<p>Patrick throws his legs over the side of the bed and attempts to stand. It takes him two, no, three times before his knees quit buckling. “Sorry, man. I should get home.”</p>
<p>Jonny props himself up on his elbow, mouth turned downward. “You’re not staying?”</p>
<p>“Nah. Gotta get back and finish packing.” Patrick can’t remember where he threw all of his clothes from earlier. This keeps happening. Or, well, it kept happening. Where are his boxers?</p>
<p>“Packing?” Jonny asks. His voice is low and surprised.</p>
<p>Patrick realizes his mistake the moment the words are out of his mouth. He hasn’t told Jonny he's leaving, couldn’t figure out what to say or how to say it, too afraid of Jonny’s reaction once he did, and now he’s waited too long. Now there isn’t any choice left but to blurt it all out.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Patrick says, glancing around until he finds his boxers by the far wall. He walks to them and slips them on and starts searching for his sweatpants, never looking up. “My flight leaves at nine in the morning.”</p>
<p>There’s rustling of the sheets, and then, “Your flight? Where are you going? Back to Buffalo?”</p>
<p>His pants are by the dresser, the one facing the opposite direction of the bed - which makes it easy to turn his back to Jonny, suck in a sharp breath, and say, “Switzerland, actually. I’ve signed on to play with EHC Biel until the lockout ends.”</p>
<p>Silence.</p>
<p>Not even the whirling of the ceiling fan above, or the noise of traffic on the street below. Absolutely nothing for ten seconds. Patrick pulls his pants up one leg at a time, checks his pocket to make sure his phone, wallet, and keys are still inside. He turns his head to look for his shirt and sees from his periphery Jonny fully upright in bed now, his expression stricken, shocked. </p>
<p>“You’re kidding me, right?” Jonny asks.</p>
<p>“No.”</p>
<p>Another long silence. Patrick keeps moving this time, eyes flicking over the floor for his shirt, his socks, looking and looking.</p>
<p>“So what you’re telling me is you’re leaving tomorrow?” Jonny says, and his voice is louder this time, harder, like how he gets on the ice with opponents. “For three months, possibly longer?”</p>
<p>“That’s why I came over,” Patrick says. <i>Because I needed to see you one last time</i>, he doesn’t say, can’t say.</p>
<p>“For sex?” Jonny asks.</p>
<p>And of course that’s what he would think, that’s what they’ve always been, friends who fuck -  who fuck around. They’ve never been more and Jonny’s never pushed for more, Patrick’s never expected more, they aren’t more. They are only this.</p>
<p>Patrick has to be what he’s always been, too. He can’t be anything else.</p>
<p>
  <i>Don’t be that guy.</i>
</p>
<p>He won’t.</p>
<p>“I mean, yeah?” Patrick says, flippantly, feeling Jonny’s come still wet around his hole and on the insides of his thighs. “It’s going to be a while. I’ll miss it.”</p>
<p>“The sex,” Jonny states.</p>
<p>“Right,” Patrick says.</p>
<p>He finds his shirt by the ensuite bathroom door, his left sock by the nightstand. His right is still missing. </p>
<p>“You should go,” Jonny says flatly.</p>
<p>Patrick stutters in his footsteps and stops. He keeps his head ducked down. Where the fuck is his sock? “I will. Just give me a few minutes. Gotta find my sock.”</p>
<p>Sock…sock...where the fuck is his sock? Not by the bed, not in the bathroom, or by the closet. Shit.</p>
<p>Jonny pulls the sheets off of him and stands. “No. No, you need to go. Now.”</p>
<p>“Just one second,” Patrick says, pulling up the comforter and looking beneath it. No sock. His sock has disappeared. But he can’t leave without his sock. He gets on his knees to check under the bed.</p>
<p>“We shouldn’t do this anymore.”</p>
<p>Patrick freezes.</p>
<p>“Do what?” he says, fingers gripping at the carpet beneath him. “Fuck?” He stares at the darkness under Jonny’s bed and tries to remember what it is he’s doing anymore. He’s just looking into the blackness, chest heaving.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Jonny says, and Patrick can’t decipher his tone. It feels wrong. “Whatever you want to call it. It’s over. It’s done.”</p>
<p>And the funny thing is, he knew this was coming, he’s been preparing for it since May. He should’ve been ready, he should just agree and leave, go to Biel, forget about everything and he can deal with Chicago whenever that comes, later on.</p>
<p>Some sick part of him wants to hear Jonny say it, just so he knows he’s right. That it’s because Patrick’s a failure and a loser, and not worth Jonny’s time. It’s already happening, he can’t stop it, might as well jump all the way into the deep end.</p>
<p>He stands up slowly, second by second preparing himself, fortifying his walls for the meteor that’s about to crash through him. It’s a lot like boarding up windows for an incoming tornado, he imagines. Or using a young AHL defenseman against an elite NHL winger right in front of the net. Brutal.</p>
<p>“Why?” he asks, anyway.</p>
<p>Jonny’s standing in front of him naked, his big, beautiful body unselfconscious even now. The only flicker of doubt is the way with each breath he clasps his hands together and rubs his right thumb inside of the palm of his left hand, over and over. “I thought…I thought that maybe…but you don’t. You’re just here to get off on me like I’m some fucking walking, talking dildo. You don’t care about anyone but yourself.”</p>
<p>Wait.</p>
<p>What?</p>
<p>Patrick shakes his head and plays the words back inside his head.</p>
<p>
  <i>What?</i>
</p>
<p>“Excuse me?” Patrick says. “What the ever-loving fuck?! You can’t be serious.”</p>
<p>“Well I am.”</p>
<p>“What did I do?”</p>
<p>Jonny throws an arm up in the air, like he’s beyond frustrated. “Patrick, you made the decision to leave and go play hockey in <i>fucking</i> Europe and you didn’t even tell me until the night before you’re leaving! Were you gonna tell me at all if I hadn’t asked?!”</p>
<p>Patrick swallows. “Yes.”</p>
<p>“<i>Really?</i>” Jonny asks. He looks entirely unbelieving.</p>
<p>“I didn’t think it mattered. You were going to be busy with the NHLPA stuff, what was I supposed to do? Sit around twiddling my thumbs for the rest of the year? I can’t do that, Jonny!”</p>
<p>“Okay, fine. But fucking tell me! Act like you give a shit about more than just the sex,” he says, almost snide.</p>
<p>It’s fucking mean the way he’s glaring at Patrick now, the way he’s talking to him, and Patrick expected it, he asked for it even, but now that it’s happening, he can’t help the way he wants to snap back at Jonny and hurt him, too.</p>
<p>“You sure seemed like you were into the sex when you were fucking me ten minutes ago. But now that I’m leaving you conveniently aren’t anymore?” Patrick says, watching the way Jonny’s expression crumbles from something angry into something miserable. “Look, if you want to fuck other people go ahead. I wasn’t stopping you before and I won’t stop you now. But let me know if I should get tested because I’ve never gone bare before.”</p>
<p>“I haven’t been with anyone else, Kaner.  Not since we started this.” Jonny lets out a long, tired breath.</p>
<p>It’s not as if Patrick didn’t know that, but he worried it wasn’t true, and to hear it confirmed stings in a new, bitter way.</p>
<p>“But you want to be?”</p>
<p>“No,” Jonny says.</p>
<p>Now Patrick’s truly confused. “Then what? You’re tired of the sex? Of me? What?”</p>
<p>Running his hands over his face, Jonny knuckles at his eyes. His shoulders sag. “You’re not getting it. I want <i>you</i>. But you won’t even spend your last night in Chicago with me before you’re about to leave for who knows how fucking long. You just want sex and I thought I could be fine with that. For a while I was.”</p>
<p>“And now you’re not?”</p>
<p>“Now I’m not.”</p>
<p>Jonny steps up to him, cups his hands around Patrick’s arms almost like he’s pleading. It feels like all of Patrick’s insides, his guts, his lungs, his heart, have been yanked up into his throat. He can’t think, he can’t even breathe.</p>
<p>What is Jonny saying? What does he <i>want</i>?</p>
<p>“I can’t believe you’re springing this on me right now, Jonny! I have to go to Switzerland in eight goddamn hours.”</p>
<p>The hands fall away from Patrick’s body and Jonny steps back. “Maybe I would’ve planned it better if you had bothered to tell me what the hell was going on, but you didn’t. Here I am thinking you came over to have a nice date night with me, eat some dinner, watch a movie, instead of, you know, just walking in the door and hopping on my dick.”</p>
<p>The second Patrick decided to go to Biel, no, the second Patrick went to Madison, it’s like he lit a stick of dynamite with a very long fuse and now it’s about to hit the igniter and explode. And he has no one to blame but himself so he might as well throw more gasoline on the fire. Screw it.</p>
<p>“Fuck you,” Patrick snaps. “I wasn’t the one that stuck a hand down my pants first tonight.”</p>
<p>Jonny’s eyes look away as he nods. “You’re right. It was me. I started it and now I’m ending it. Please leave.”</p>
<p>Patrick watches him walk to the bathroom and shut the door behind him a loud click. </p>
<p>“Fine,” he says, even though he doesn’t think Jonny can hear him.</p>
<p>He leaves without ever finding his sock.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t sleep more than an hour that night, and when his alarm goes off, his eyes feel as dry as sandpaper, his back aching from being curled up on his side all night. He throws whatever remaining shit he needs in his luggage and calls a cab to come take him to the airport. As they’re pulling away from his building, he thinks about everything that happened with Jonny for the thousandth time and directs the driver to take him to Jonny’s place instead.</p>
<p>It might be six in the morning, but he has to talk to Jonny and there’s no time left.</p>
<p>Patrick knocks on his door for two minutes before Jonny opens the door. He looks as exhausted as Patrick feels, dark circles under his eyes and his hair a nest of tangles, his color unusually sallow.</p>
<p>“I don’t wanna leave things like this,” Patrick says before he can be stopped. “I don’t...Jon. Don’t be mad at me.”</p>
<p>“I’m not mad,” Jonny says stiffly, but then something in his eyes gently softens. He has on his sweatpants and shirt from last night and he looks so warm and soft. Patrick wants to touch him so badly.</p>
<p>“Then we’re okay? Buddies?” he asks, voice shaking.</p>
<p>“Buddies,” Jonny says, emotionless.</p>
<p>Patrick steps forward. “Yeah? We are right? Right?”</p>
<p>Whatever invisible space Patrick’s been putting between them over these past few months is no match against the longing need Patrick has to wrap himself around Jonny and press his face to Jonny’s neck and hold on.</p>
<p>“Peeks…” Jonny murmurs, cupping a tender hand around Patrick’s nape.</p>
<p>He’s shivering and he doesn’t understand why. It doesn’t make sense. “I can’t lose you. You’re my best friend, Jonny.”</p>
<p>“I don’t want to be your friend,” Jonny says, and tilts Patrick’s face back with two palms around his cheeks. His eyes are dark and painfully open. “I want more than that.”</p>
<p>Patrick’s mind goes terrifyingly blank, like someone hit the off switch and everything inside of him detached. All he can do is step back and let go. “I don’t know what to say.”</p>
<p>Jonny’s bottom lip trembles as his jaw tightens. “You don’t have to say anything.” He grabs his front door by the handle, indicating for Patrick to leave, and Patrick goes, standing in his open doorway, unable to move. “Have a good trip, Kaner. I hope things go well for you in Switzerland.” </p>
<p>“Jonny,” he says, and he doesn’t know what he wants except that he doesn’t want Jonny to walk away. <i>Please</i>.</p>
<p>“I have to go,” Jonny says dully. “See you when you get back.”</p>
<p>“Jon,” Patrick says, but the door closes.</p>
<p>There’s a quiet pause and then a distinct shout, something being thrown onto the floor and splintering.</p>
<p>“<i>FUCK</i>.”</p>
<p>Wood cracking, the banging of medal hitting stone, and smashed glass. Patrick listens to all of it, back pressed to the wall outside of Jonny’s apartment, the sound of Jonny <i>breaking apart</i>.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Halfway through the O’Hare concourse B, the switch flips back on again and Patrick has to rush to the nearest men’s bathroom to puke up the plain bagel and strawberry cream cheese he’d forced himself to eat before he left his apartment earlier. He can’t stop hearing Jonny’s angry shout in the back of his head, or the crashing sound of furniture and shattered glass. </p>
<p>An hour later, his eyes wet and his stomach turning, he gets on his plane for Switzerland and watches the Chicago landscape disappear underneath him.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Chapter 13</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2012</b>
</p>
<p>Patrick steps off the plane at the Basel airport in Biel, Switzerland, and immediately wishes he’d brought his mom. She’d asked him the week before he left if he wanted her to go, if he’d be okay on his own, and Patrick had said yes. It was less to do with him being certain of his own well-being as it was with just needing some space from...everything and everyone. And, well, because he was also hoping the lockout would end quickly. That he’d get to turn right around and come back.</p>
<p>No reason to drag his mom across the Atlantic just to pack up and return in the space of a few weeks.</p>
<p>He’d be great, probably.</p>
<p>He’d be fine.</p>
<p>“Hello, Patrick! Welcome!” Martin Steinegger says, waving Patrick over by baggage claim with a little whiteboard sign that has Patrick’s name and number on it in green marker.</p>
<p>“Hi. Hello. Uh Martin, right?” Patrick asks.</p>
<p>He receives an enthusiastic smile and head nod in return. And before Patrick can take a breath Martin launches into a questionnaire, inquiring how Patrick’s travels went, if he managed to get rest on the plane, if he ate, if he’s hungry, if he needs anything at all.</p>
<p>The truth is Patrick’s exhausted, his head fuzzy, and his thoughts slow. He didn’t sleep more than an hour on the plane and he barely ate his food, his stomach still churning from what happened that morning. Or was it yesterday morning? Did he go forward in time or back? He must’ve gone forward because it was daytime when he left twelve hours ago and it’s still daytime now.</p>
<p>None of this felt as confusing when he was with the Hawks in Helsinki, but then, everyone else was there to tell him what to do and where to go. Now it’s just him. </p>
<p>Him and Martin.</p>
<p>They grab Patrick’s bags and walk to Martin’s car, a silver Audi that looks about nineteen years old. The trunk squeaks when it opens and the leather on the passenger seat is wearing so thin in places that it feels precarious to sit down too quickly.</p>
<p>Above them the sky is a cornflower blue, cloudless, and so bright it makes Patrick’s eyes burn. He tries to rub away the ache before he moves to pull out his sunglasses from his backpack that’s sitting between his feet. Beside him Martin is explaining the finer points of living in Biel, his accent a mix of French and some other language Patrick can’t immediately pinpoint. He speaks English with barely any bumps or breaks at all and if that’s what it’ll be like with the coaching staff and his teammates, Patrick’s happy to have one less thing to worry about.</p>
<p>“I can take you to the hotel now?” Martin asks after the thirty minute ride from the airport. “You can get rest for tomorrow.”</p>
<p>Patrick bites at his lip. If he goes to the hotel now and tries to sleep, he’ll just do the same shit he did on the plane, which is watch TV, try not to think, and get zero sleep. </p>
<p>“Can I see the arena first?” he asks. “I can drop off some of my gear.”</p>
<p>Martin shoots Patrick a surprised look from the corner of his eye, but agrees, and starts chattering away again about the team, the rink, the staff, things Patrick’s interested in but can only give half of his attention to as he stares out the window and watches the luscious greenery of the environment pass him by. There are breathtaking mountains and flower-covered fields that melt into colorful buildings with gothic style architecture the closer they get to the city. It’s too much to take in all at once and Patrick can’t help but make a mental checklist of all the ways it’s different from Chicago.</p>
<p>Starting with the roundabouts.</p>
<p>He really doesn’t fucking understand those.</p>
<p>At Eisstadion Arena, Martin gives him a tour of the facilities, beginning with the coaching staff’s offices, to the player’s tiny cafeteria with turquoise-flecked formica tables and rickety wooden chairs, to the slightly refurbished workout room, and cramped locker room. The stalls are so small they remind Patrick of his days in mite hockey. As he drops off his sticks and skates, he’s introduced to one of the trainers who speaks mostly German and very little English, and is then finally, blessedly, taken to the ice.</p>
<p>It’s bigger than Patrick imagined, even if the arena itself is smaller, not just smaller than the UC, but smaller than the BG Arena Patrick skated at when he was with the Knights in juniors.</p>
<p>Everything feels so foreign and weird and off, he just. He needs to skate.</p>
<p>There’s a team of kids on one end of the ice, but Martin doesn’t seem to mind when Patrick asks if he can get his feet wet for an hour. When he receives an indulgent yes and a pat on the shoulder he rushes back to the locker room and shoves his feet into his skates so fast he realizes just the idea of skating has given him his second wind. The time flies by as he stickhandles in front of the net, the distant sound of kids talking and yelling in another language a hundred feet away barely registering against the way everything else dissolves around him.</p>
<p>It’s just Patrick and hockey.</p>
<p>All he needs is hockey.</p>
<p>Nothing else.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Martin drops him off at the hotel with a bag of McDonald’s fast food, of all things, and promises to retrieve him in the afternoon tomorrow for orientation and team meetings. Patrick wants to ask him why it has to be afternoon and not morning, but he imagines Martin kindly giving him time to sleep and get over his jetlag is a courtesy he shouldn’t take for granted. </p>
<p>In his room he picks at his burger and fries, setting up a movie to watch on his laptop even though there are English-speaking options on the hotel television. He wants to skype his parents or maybe Sharpy to see what they’re up to, tell them about his arrival, but once he’s slowed down and settled on the bed, his eyes begin to droop so heavily he can barely manage to shut his laptop off and set it on the nightstand before he passes out.</p>
<p>His last thought as he’s falling asleep is only of Jonny.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The next morning Patrick is showered and dressed two hours before Martin is scheduled to arrive. When he receives a call thirty minutes later from Martin asking if it’s okay if he comes early to pick Patrick up, Patrick doesn’t hesitate to say yes, rushing to the lobby to wait. Martin takes him to get his driver’s license first, a process that moves shockingly quicker than anything in America, and then they’re off to the rink.</p>
<p>There’s more introductions as the whole team is present for practice today. The coach, Kevin Schläpfer, speaks almost no English, besides a few token words of greeting, nor do most of the staff or management. The language divide is greatly varied among the team, with seven players being Canadian, and most of them bilingual. It makes Patrick wish he’d paid better attention when Duncs and Jon-</p>
<p>When the French-speaking players on the Hawks were trying to teach him words and phrases.</p>
<p>After being given his jerseys and matching pants and socks, Patrick’s introduced to his translator for his stay, Elias. </p>
<p>“Unfortunately I cannot stay with you for the remainder of the day,” Martin tells Patrick as they stop in front of a conference room. “Elias will help you through the orientation seminar and the following meetings today and through this week. If you have questions let him know. If anything pressing comes up please do call me.”</p>
<p>He hands Patrick a business card with two sides, one in French, the other in German, but there’s a number at the bottom that Patrick suspects is the only thing he’s going to need and nods. As Martin walks off down a brightly, fluorescent lit hallway, a stone settles in Patrick’s gut.</p>
<p>It’s sink or swim now.</p>
<p>He opens the conference room door to find there’s only two people inside, a skinny blond man in khaki slacks and blue sweater with a white turtleneck underneath, and Tyler Seguin. </p>
<p>Patrick blinks, a weird sense of displacement seeping into him as he sees a familiar face in such an unfamiliar place.</p>
<p>When Tyler recognizes Patrick, his expression explodes into joy, his smile stretched so wide across his face it looks like it hurts. He pops up out of his seat and almost skips over to Patrick, his hand stretched out in greeting.</p>
<p>“Kaner! Hey, Kaner! Hi, dude!”</p>
<p>Patrick blinks again, trying to adjust. He shakes Tyler’s hand absentmindedly. “Hey, man. Um. Uh, how’s it going?”</p>
<p>Tyler bounces a little on the balls of his feet, restless, but excited. “Not bad. I don’t know what’s going on half the time since I got here, but I mean fuck, it’s hockey right? Bound to figure it out.”</p>
<p>The edge of Patrick’s mouth twitches. “Yeah, I think we’ll find our groove. Or, I hope so.”</p>
<p>They don’t get to talk more as a few people from the front office step into the conference room and begin speaking, and Patrick's so busy trying to listen to Elias translate while taking in the new information he's being given that he struggles to keep eye contact.<br/>A few hours pass as he listens to much of the same orientation bullshit that the Hawks make their players go through every year during training camp. They put names to faces in a slide show of the staff and team, then move on to the practice schedule, then the game day schedule, explaining how travel days work and the areas which the team travels to. It’s shocking to learn that they never travel far enough that Patrick couldn’t feasibly just drive himself back to Biel after every game instead of staying at hotels. A real perk amidst a collection of changes that pale in comparison to what he’s given and experienced playing in the NHL.</p>
<p>Patrick knows he shouldn’t compare the two. It’s only going to make him miserable and homesick if he takes every tiny detail of life here and holds it under a Chicago-shaped microscope. He didn’t come here for things to be nicer, or shinier, or more luxurious. He came here for hockey, because he missed hockey, because he couldn’t be in Chicago and - anyway.</p>
<p>Hockey is why he’s here and he’s going to get to play soon. That’s all that matters.</p>
<p>They break for lunch and Patrick manages to force down a chicken salad and some polenta while Tyler talks nonstop about news he’s heard from the NHLPA reps, how his mom is looking after his house and his dog while he’s gone, how he’s already racked up a five hundred dollar phone bill talking to his sisters back home, and how he wonders what it’s going to be like playing for a coach that doesn’t speak any English.</p>
<p>He’s still talking by the time they get back to the conference room and settle in for the afternoon orientation sessions. These mostly consist of things Patrick is significantly less interested in like health insurance paperwork, medical paperwork, visa paperwork, rules of the ice (which he already has memorized), and do’s and don’ts off the ice.</p>
<p>Tyler nudges Patrick in the arm and smiles. “When did you get here? Yesterday? I got here three days ago but it kind of feels like I’ve been here a week. It’s nice to have someone familiar around. Ever since I arrived I’ve just been, like, spinning, you know? Sometimes it doesn’t feel that different, but then I’ll walk outside and it’s like holy shit! The people are nice though,” Tyler says and finally takes a breath. He pauses for a long moment, staring off and then quietly whispers, “I miss my dog.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Patrick murmurs. He doesn’t know what else to say. Matteo, their current speaker, is now on slide eleven out of seventy-five and the translator, Elias, is sitting in the corner of the room looking annoyed at them for not paying better attention.  </p>
<p>“You okay, dude?” Tyler asks. “Still jet lagged? Me too. Keep wanting to fall asleep in the middle of the afternoon. It’s the worst. Hey, got a question for you.”</p>
<p>“Sure.”</p>
<p>“You wanna get a place together? I’m staying at a hotel now, but I need something a little more permanent and it’d be nice to have someone to talk to around, you know?”</p>
<p>“Um,” Patrick says. It’s not that he doesn’t like Tyler. He does. They’ve only met a handful of times, one of those during the 2010 Cup run - Tyler’s draft year. Those were moments where they got along well and could make easy conversation. But. He’s still essentially a stranger and Patrick’s lived alone since he was nineteen. He doesn’t know how he’d feel about sharing a space with another person again.</p>
<p>“You can totally think about it if you want. But the offer is open!” Tyler says cheerfully.</p>
<p>Elias clears his throat.</p>
<p>“Okay, yeah.”</p>
<p>“Yeah?” Tyler says, eyebrows rising curiously. He’s like an excited puppy. It reminds Patrick of...well.</p>
<p>“I’ll think about it,” he says, and focuses his attention back on the slide show, now on page fifteen.</p>
<p>“Cool,” Tyler says, beaming. And then schools his expression into something more neutral. “Coolcoolcool.”</p>
<p>Elias clears his throat again.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Martin finds a house for them to rent a few days later, and Patrick, sick of the hotel by then, decides fuck it, and moves in with Tyler. The house, he is told, was designed in the traditional alpine style with a decorative wood trim and a gabled roof that has overhanging eaves. It includes three bedrooms, is fully furnished, and is only a five minute drive from the rink.</p>
<p>It’s a nice house, as far as houses go, and it has enough space for Patrick’s needs, even if maybe it doesn’t match up to the quality he’s become accustomed to. </p>
<p>It doesn’t matter.</p>
<p>He’s here for hockey. And he doesn’t need anything else.</p>
<p>Martin gives them each a set of keys for the company car they can use while they’re in Biel. It’s an ugly black station wagon that looks like it’s been around longer than Patrick’s been alive with the team logo plastered all over the sides, but Patrick thanks Martin graciously anyway and goes to unpack his bags.</p>
<p>He throws most of his clothes in an empty dresser, hangs up his suits, and messes with his adapter and charger cord until he gets his phone connected properly. When that’s finished twenty minutes later, he wanders into the living room to find Tyler flipping channels on TV.</p>
<p>“It’s all in German or French.” He frowns.</p>
<p>“Is there a DVD player?” Patrick asks.</p>
<p>Tyler jumps up from his seat to inspect the situation and discovers that there is one hidden in the cupboard below. They spend a half hour between the two of them trying to figure out how to hook the thing up to get it going only to find out that Patrick’s DVDs won’t play since they’re from a different region.</p>
<p>“Want a beer?” Tyler laughs.</p>
<p>Patrick sighs. “I really do.”</p>
<p>And that’s how they spend their first night as roommates, getting drunk on German beer and watching an Indiana Jones marathon on Patrick’s laptop until they both pass out on the couch.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>In the weeks that follow, Patrick skates and he sleeps and he plays hockey. When he isn’t at the rink, he sleeps some more, and when he’s slept too much, he hangs out with Tyler and watches movies, or listens to Tyler talk to his mom on the phone, or skypes his own family, who ask for updates about every practice and every game.</p>
<p>Tyler is easy to get along with, doesn’t ask too many non-hockey related questions or push Patrick about why he doesn’t want to go out at all.</p>
<p>“A few of the guys are going to this leather club in the next town over, you want to come?” Tyler asks him one Tuesday night. </p>
<p>Maybe it’s Wednesday. Patrick’s lost track.</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t take his eyes off Back to the Future currently playing on his laptop. He has a bowl of macaroni and cheese in his lap and his favorite sweatpants on. He’s good to go.</p>
<p>“What’s a leather club?” </p>
<p>“A kink club, I think,” Tyler says easily. He seems to do everything that way, his entire existence nonchalant and unbothered.</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t understand how he does it. </p>
<p>“Nah,” he says, instead of inquiring further. He’s curious, but not enough he wants to invite Tyler to press him to go along. “Have fun!”</p>
<p>Tyler shrugs and takes off ten minutes later, leaving Patrick with his food and his movie and his silence. It’s good for the first two hours, relaxing, but then he starts to feel restless, his head flicking through thoughts he doesn’t want to think about - people he doesn’t want to think about.</p>
<p>It’s harder to avoid Jonny when he’s alone. There’s nothing and no one to distract him, only his brain and the image of Jonny’s face stony and cold as he told Patrick to leave, only the sound of his anguished roar as he tore his apartment apart when he thought Patrick had left - left him.</p>
<p>The macaroni gurgles inside of Patrick’s stomach, settling like something slimy and sick in his gut. He gets up from the couch and drops his half-eaten bowl into the steel sink, unable to look at it. Then he goes into his room and grabs his phone and texts the first person he can think of who will successfully divert his attention.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Hey</i>
</p>
<p><i><b>Patrick:</b> Are you up?</i> </p>
<p>He doesn’t receive a reply for about fifteen minutes and when he does it’s not exactly the hello he was expecting.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Sharpy:</b> Yeah but only because my kid just puked pureed green beans all over her crib. What’s up?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Oh. Sorry. We can talk later.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Sharpy:</b> It’s fine. I’m on laundry duty while Abby gets her back to sleep. What’s up?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Is Maddie gonna be okay?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Sharpy:</b> Of course, just an upset tummy. What’s going on, Peekaboo? You homesick already? Hasn’t even been two weeks.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Maybe</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Sharpy:</b> How’s it going with Seguin?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Good. He’s chill.</i>
</p>
<p>There’s a pause and Patrick doesn’t know if Sharpy is switching over his laundry or busy with his family or just waiting for Patrick to say something else, but he doesn’t. Not at first. Patrick lets the moment hang there until he can’t help himself any longer.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Any news from the NHLPA? Any movement?</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Sharpy:</b> Not yet. Shit seems to still be gridlocked for now.</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Oh.</i>
</p>
<p>Another lull comes and Patrick knows Sharpy’s tired, and that he’s probably getting his kid to bed, that Patrick should let him be. But he stares at his phone screen for another handful of minutes, waiting, hoping.</p>
<p>Finally another message comes through.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Sharpy:</b> He’s doing okay. I’m keeping track.</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t have to ask who Sharpy’s talking about, or even what he means. He knows. It makes him fold into himself, his arms curling around his middle as he pulls his legs in and crumbles against the couch. It’s hard to breathe and so he draws himself in tighter and tighter, trying to grasp onto the air and feeling it slip between his grasp just as easily.</p>
<p>He doesn’t know how Sharpy found out, and he’s not sure he could take knowing what, if anything, was said. But he’s glad Jonny isn’t on his own, in general, or in this. </p>
<p>
  <i>“I don’t want to be your friend,” Jonny says, and tilts Patrick’s face back with two palms around his cheeks. His eyes are dark and painfully open. “I want more than that.”</i>
</p>
<p>Patrick squeezes his eyes shut and tries to breathe in through his nose, out through his mouth. He tries to think of anything else but Jonny’s achingly handsome face and his searching eyes.</p>
<p>He had to leave for hockey.</p>
<p>If Patrick isn’t a hockey player, he isn’t anything. He isn’t worth having. Eventually Jonny would - he’d.</p>
<p>He can’t be that guy.</p>
<p>He has to be this: Patrick Kane #88.</p>
<p>“I want more than that.”</p>
<p>Patrick throws his phone on the ground and shoves his face into a throw pillow and breathes and breathes until the fabric beneath his mouth and eyes is damp and he’s clenching every muscle so hard that when he finally releases then relaxes his body, he passes out into a restless, ragged sleep.</p>
<p>When he wakes, he picks his phone up off the ground and types out a single text.</p>
<p>
  <i><b>Patrick:</b> Thank you</i>
</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Hockey is hockey is hockey. That’s what he’s always told himself. That’s what has always been true.</p>
<p>For the first time he’s not sure it’s enough.</p>
<p>The team has games against the SC Langnau Tigers and the HC Lugano one week, and then finally pick up their first win with Tyler and Patrick on roster the following week against the HC Fribourg-Gottéron. Everyone is thrilled: Martin and Kevin, and especially their teammates. Patrick picks up six points in three games and no one can shut up about his hands or the way he moves with the puck. The fans treat him like a god.</p>
<p>It’s not Chicago, it’s not the Hawks, but it’s not nothing. Patrick shouldn’t feel this empty.</p>
<p>On their off days Tyler goes out and parties while Patrick stays home watching the same ten movies over and over. He skypes with his parents for hours, talking over the games, NHLPA news, if he’s getting practice in at the rink like he should before his sisters get on and tell him all about school and the latest drama on the TV shows they watch. Eventually he figures out how to do his own laundry, only staining a few white shirts with bleach, and learns to cook more than just pasta, experimenting with a healthy eating cookbook that Erica sent him. There’s a chickpea and kale soup that makes him think of Jonny and every time he flips past the recipe he finds himself pausing on the picture, staring at the ingredients in a daze and wondering what Jonny’s doing on the other side of the world at that very minute, if he’s thinking of Patrick too. </p>
<p>Probably not. Why would he? Patrick left but Jonny was the one to end things. Jonny was the one that shut the door.</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t blame him.</p>
<p>It’s easier to sleep than think about any of it too much, and he does for those first few weeks as he adjusts to the time change. He sleeps and plays hockey and sleeps and plays hockey until one day he can’t sleep at all, mind racing with too many thoughts. He ends up back on the living room couch staring at his laptop screen as he watches WALL-E for the nineteenth time.</p>
<p>On the third day of his insomnia, he hears the front door to the house opening around three in the morning and footsteps walk into the room just as he’s finally nodded off on the sofa. It’s Tyler and someone else, someone Patrick can’t see in the darkness. There are whispered words, those of Tyler’s and another man’s as they pass through the room and move to the hallway. A click of a door shutting happens a minute later and then for a while there’s nothing but silence.</p>
<p>Patrick isn’t sure what to make of it, still groggy and spaced out from his half hour of desperately needed sleep when he hears a soft groan. It turns into a louder moan that’s followed by the creaking of a headboard hitting the wall. This goes on for an hour as Patrick remains curled up on the couch with two throw pillows covering his ears, trying to block it out.</p>
<p>When the noise eventually dies down, he falls into a fitful sleep only to be woken up again when the man, a very tall, very large viking-looking dude, is tiptoeing towards the front door. Their eyes catch as he’s shuffling through the room and he smiles, waving.</p>
<p>“Big fan,” he says in a thick Scandanavian accent.</p>
<p>“Uh,” Patrick says dumbly. “Thanks?”</p>
<p>He stares at the ceiling once Thor is gone and he’s alone again, realizing he just learned two very important facts about Tyler.</p>
<p>One: Tyler is loud when he’s getting fucked.</p>
<p>Gross.</p>
<p>And two: apparently he likes very big men.</p>
<p>That’s understandable, Patrick thinks immediately, and then decides he doesn’t want to be thinking about this anymore and gets up off of the couch to go take a shower.</p>
<p>Two days later Tyler brings another, different man back to their house. This guy is even bigger.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“Get up.”</p>
<p>Patrick blinks up at the figure standing over the back of the couch, watching him. His eyes are fuzzy and a little unfocused from how long he’s been staring at his laptop screen. More specifically the movie Twister. </p>
<p>“What?” he croaks out.</p>
<p>On the other side of Patrick is a glass coffee table, then a recliner and a brown leather loveseat. Beyond that are the windows with the blinds half open, the gold of the setting sun peeking in at odd angles and leaving streaks of light across the room and over Patrick’s prone body.</p>
<p>He hasn’t moved in at least three hours. His left foot is so numb it’s starting to prickle uncomfortably.</p>
<p>Tyler sighs. “I’m tired of watching you mope on the couch, dude. We’re gonna go out and do some exploring.” He pats Patrick on the shoulder. “C’mon, get up and go get dressed.”</p>
<p>“I’m good,” Patrick says, waving him off.</p>
<p>There are footsteps as Patrick hears Tyler walk around the couch until they’re facing each other head on. Tyler smiles, not teasingly or like he’s bothered, but like he’s happy to have Patrick’s full attention. Then he says without pulling any punches, “You’re really not and it’s sad. And also a little smelly.”</p>
<p>“I do not fucking smell,” Patrick squawks. He lifts up his arm to take a quick whiff of his armpit and, well. “Okay, whatever.”</p>
<p>Tyler nods, clearly pleased he’s been validated. “Go shower and I’ll wait here.”</p>
<p>The idea of getting off the couch isn’t wholly unappealing. He is hungry, and he’s got to piss, his leg is still pins and needles and his throat is dry, all things he could solve by standing up and taking care of them. But he doesn’t want to go out and deal with people. Not if those people aren’t -</p>
<p>It’s not Chicago out there, and if it’s not Chicago and it’s not hockey, Patrick’s just fine to stay put. There isn’t anything out there he wants.</p>
<p>“Just leave me alone. I don’t want to go out clubbing,” he tells Tyler, and tries to start his movie again.</p>
<p>Tyler flicks his wrist away from the trackpad.</p>
<p>“Who said anything about clubbing? I thought we might get some food, maybe walk around Old Town. Dino was telling me it was really nice at night all lit up. It’ll be fun.”</p>
<p>Patrick looks at him for a minute and slowly moves his fingers back down. He only gets a few inches before Tyler flicks him again, harder this time.</p>
<p>“Ow, fucker!” he grumbles and hits play, throwing out a defiant look.</p>
<p>In response Tyler throws a pillow at Patrick’s face and, while he’s distracted, grabs the laptop, pulls out the charger cord that’s attached to it and walks out of the room. He’s gone for a few minutes, only returning after Patrick hears some shuffling and doors shutting, his laptop presumably being hidden away. </p>
<p>Great.</p>
<p>“Do I have to?” he asks when Tyler walks back in the room, looking more determined.</p>
<p>Tyler smiles again. “I’d say no, but if you don’t agree I’m stealing your phone and hiding it next, so you might as well.”</p>
<p>Patrick frowns. “You’re cruel.”</p>
<p>“So is whatever’s happening to your hair right now,” Tyler bites back, and Patrick snorts out a laugh. “Go fucking shower. Dinner’s on me.”</p>
<p>It takes three long breaths, a fair bit of wiggling, and five minutes of shaking out his dead foot to get Patrick up off the couch, but when he’s finally moving he reaches over and tweaks Tyler’s nipple until he screeches, “Bitch!” It’s a satisfying payback.</p>
<p>“Maybe dinner’s on you now,” Tyler calls as Patrick’s walking down the hall.</p>
<p>“No take backs!” Patrick shouts.</p>
<p>There’s a long pause and then a final, “<i>Fine</i>.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>They take their fugly-ass station wagon into Old Town and spend twenty minutes looking for somewhere to park. There are closely-packed buildings everywhere the eye can see and almost no open land, certainly no parking lots. It takes them a fifteen minute walk from the lake where they end up leaving the car to get back to Old Town proper and by then it’s fully dark, the cobblestone streets lit up by the warm glow of all the small businesses, shops, and restaurants open for evening service. </p>
<p>Patrick gets caught up in all of the vibrant and beautifully sculpted fountains that seem to adorn every street. Each building is a different color with shutters to match, like a sideways rainbow, the interior of each window an inviting yellow, and the air a fresh green smell. He takes in a few deep breaths and closes his eyes for a beat as the cool air of the night glides over his face. </p>
<p>The weather in Biel isn’t much different than what it’d be in Chicago and it makes him ache when he listens to the sounds of people moving about, cars in the distance, life all around him.</p>
<p>Tyler eventually leads them to a restaurant named Les Caves and they take a seat at the bar to order a drink before their table is ready. The nice part about Biel is that even though the people speak mainly German and French, most places accommodate English speakers in one way or another. Patrick has two different language translation apps on his phone in case of emergencies, but for the most part he can get by using the ten to twenty words he’s picked up over the last few weeks and when that fails, he’s very good at pointing at things he wants and smiling.</p>
<p>That’s how he orders himself a beer as he watches Tyler make small talk with the tall, dark, and bearded bartender who only seems to understand half of what Tyler’s saying. There’s some soft melodic music playing, instrumental, but it involves a piano and a violin and Patrick gets caught up in it as he watches couples, friends, and families walk by the restaurant’s front entrance.</p>
<p>The wood of the bar ledge beneath Patrick’s arms is smooth except for a few grooves on the edge and Patrick traces the heart shapes someone must have carved into it at some point when they were sitting at this very seat who knows how long ago.</p>
<p>“Did you see that guy?” Tyler asks.</p>
<p>“What guy?”</p>
<p>“The one in the black shirt by the door. Kind of looks like Toews.”</p>
<p>Patrick whips his torso around so fast to look over his shoulder that his arm hits his bottle of beer, and it’s only because of his fast reflexes he catches it before it flies off the bar and smashes to the ground. When he snaps his eyes up, bottle firmly in hand now, he sees a tall man in a gray jacket standing just inside the door with a blonde woman in a red dress by his side. From this angle his nose looks strikingly familiar, but that’s it. The rest of his face isn’t long enough, his jaw not as sharp, his hair too dark and his eyes too light.</p>
<p>A sick, hollow pit, thuds at the bottom of Patrick’s stomach and he turns back around, trying to tame his racing pulse.</p>
<p>Tyler’s eyes are wide, looking at him in surprise. “You good?”</p>
<p>Patrick swallows the boulder-shaped lump in his throat and nods. “Yep. All good.” His voice sounds normal. Almost.</p>
<p>Soon after they’re taken to their table in the corner of the room. A few people come up to get autographs and say hello, but everyone is extremely friendly and polite, and Patrick doesn’t mind signing whatever they provide, especially the two kids who walk over and need their mom to ask for them because all they can say in English is ‘Hello’ and ‘Pat-reek Kane’.</p>
<p>The table next to them is two men around Patrick’s age, maybe a little older, and they watch in interest for a while, until the crowd of people finally disperse and the room settles down again. The waitress takes Tyler and Patrick's drink order and then moves to the next table with the two men, handing them back the change from their bill. As they get up to leave, apparently finished with their dinner, Patrick watches them interlock hands, kiss on the lips, and then walk out of the room, no one else around them even blinking an eye.</p>
<p>The only one that even seemed to be looking was Patrick.</p>
<p>And he shouldn’t be looking, not with Tyler right next to him, but. Well.</p>
<p>“They seem pretty laid back here,” Tyler says.</p>
<p>Patrick shoves his face back into his menu. When he peers up, he sees Tyler also has his head bowed, studying his own menu.</p>
<p>“Yeah, they do,” Patrick says after several minutes pass.</p>
<p>There’s another long pause, and the room around them goes on as if life is normal and okay, people chatting, utensils clinging and clanging against plates, laughter, and the sound of water being poured into glasses. There’s this smell filtering in from the kitchen that’s making Patrick’s brain confused with want. It’s hard to think about food when his chest feels like there’s a rope tied around it and slowly being pulled tighter.</p>
<p>Tyler sets his menu down and takes a swig of his vodka tonic. “The first night I went out clubbing with Schmiddy and Campers I almost shit my pants when I saw people fucking on the dancefloor,” he whispers, and then he giggles like the thought still amuses him.  “Like full on, butt ass naked fucking, right there in front of everyone. And no one stopped them. Most people didn’t even care!”</p>
<p>Patrick’s brain stops for a second and replays what Tyler said. Then again. And one more time before he’s able to ask. “Two men?”</p>
<p>Tyler nods vigorously. “Men with men, women with women, threesomes, foursomes, any variation you could think of, dude.” He leans in an inch closer, his smile curled up at the edges, tickled, like they’re sharing a secret. “They even had a back room with couches and beds if people wanted privacy. It was fucking wild.” </p>
<p>“And no one minds?” Patrick says and finds he’s leaning in too, shocked and eager for more details.</p>
<p>“Nope. I asked Schmiddy if he goes to clubs like that often and he said most of the team do, unless they’re married. But even sometimes they’ll bring their wives. Did you know Haas and Gloor share a girlfriend?”</p>
<p>Patrick isn’t able to answer before their waitress returns to take their food order. Tyler orders entrecôte with mushroom sauce while Patrick orders veal schnitzel with herb butter and a mixed salad. Once they’re relatively alone again, water glasses topped up with water, Patrick takes a sip from his own glass, sadly lacking in ice cubes, and says, “They do?”</p>
<p>“Yeah!” Tyler laughs, the relaxed expression melting off his face and leaving only wicked amusement behind.</p>
<p>“Do they know they do?”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Tyler says again. “I think they’re all dating, like, each other.”</p>
<p>Patrick feels his eyebrows rise in shock. “Whoa.” </p>
<p>It’s not like he hasn’t heard of such things before, he’s in the fucking NHL after all. He’s seen and heard of filthier things than two men sharing a woman. He’s had filthier things done to him by...anyway. Patrick knows the kinds of things hockey players get up to behind closed doors. They can be pretty dirty motherfuckers. That isn’t the surprising part. What catches him up is the knowledge that it’s an openly known fact, that they’re all together and no one is bothered, or has told them to stop, that it’s allowed to just be.</p>
<p>Patrick tries to imagine a relationship like that existing back home and he can’t. His mind goes blank.</p>
<p>“Can you imagine if the guys back home knew about this shit?” Tyler says as if he’s reading Patrick’s thoughts. “They’d lose their minds.”</p>
<p>Patrick barks out a sharp, humorless laugh. “Or something.”</p>
<p>Tyler’s eyes flick over Patrick’s face, searching, studying maybe. He was doing it earlier too when they were at the bar, after Tyler pointed out the Jonny lookalike. And he’s been doing it occasionally ever since. Patrick isn’t sure what he’s trying to find, but he wishes Tyler would cut it the fuck out.</p>
<p>“Does it bother you?”</p>
<p>“Um,” Patrick murmurs. “No.” There’s a hangnail on the left side of his thumb and Patrick brings it to his mouth to chew on. He can feel Tyler’s gaze on him, but he keeps his attention low, watching the light reflected in his water shimmer and shake as Tyler rests his elbows on the table.</p>
<p>“I know you saw Kalle leaving the other morning,” Tyler says, still quiet. His smile fades and brightens again like he’s reminded of that night. “He’s from Finland. He skates for SC Bern. I think we play them next week.”</p>
<p>“Oh,” Patrick says, around his thumb chewing.</p>
<p>Tyler leans in again. “I think part of the reason he came back to the house with me was just to get a glimpse of you. He has a crush. He asked for your number. Or I think he did. His accent was heavy and we didn’t talk too much, if you know what I mean.”</p>
<p>He waits for Patrick to look up and smirks, his expression ridiculously exaggerated and dumb, his eyebrows pulled in at such an angle he looks like a cartoon definition of horny.</p>
<p>Patrick drops his hand from his mouth and snorts, helpless not to laugh at Tyler’s stupid face. “Yeah, I heard. I heard for a whole hour, jackass.”</p>
<p>“My bad!” Tyler grins, except he doesn’t look sorry at all. Not even a tiny bit. “But can you really blame me? I mean you saw him, right? He was like a goddamn viking model. Do vikings even come from Finland?” Patrick shakes his head, even if he’s not really sure of the answer either. Tyler shrugs. “Whatever, he was hot.”</p>
<p>“He was...okay,” Patrick says. </p>
<p>“Okay!?! <i>Okay?</i>”  A hand flings out and bats Patrick’s snapback off of his head, Tyler cackling even as he looks nineteten different degrees of offended. “Kaner, your standards are insane.”</p>
<p>“Yeah. Guess so,” he says, thinking of Jonny.</p>
<p>There isn’t anyone who can compete with him.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>That night Patrick dreams. It’s a recurring dream he’s had about being in the O’Hare Airport in Chicago several times. Each time he’s walking through the boarding bridge, after exiting his plane, finally having arrived home. He’s walking and walking, through the airport, down the escalators, all the way to baggage claim, like he’s looking for someone, expecting someone on the other side. He never quite makes it before waking up, feeling hollow and numb.</p>
<p>But when he falls into the dream this time, he ends up at the end of the boarding bridge and on the other side is Jonny.</p>
<p>He smiles when he sees Patrick, soft and slow, his eyes crinkled at the corners.</p>
<p>Patrick walks to him like he’s floating on a cloud and when he stops Jonny’s smile broadens, the sun rising over his entire face, like there’s nothing else he’d rather see than Patrick.</p>
<p>“Hi, baby,” he says, voice deep. The sound of his words is rich and so welcoming Patrick shivers.</p>
<p>“Jon,” he says, and presses himself into Jonny’s waiting arms, incapable of holding back any longer. And he doesn’t care if people are watching, if they’re talking, if pictures are being taken, and if those pictures will go viral. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.</p>
<p>Just this. Just Patrick in Jonny’s arms.</p>
<p>Lips touch the top of his head, a kiss left there. “I missed you.”</p>
<p>He can’t speak for a second, only nodding until he can finally gather the wherewithal to say, “Can we go home? I wanna go home.”</p>
<p>In the next blink of an eye they’re at Jonny’s apartment, then inside Jonny’s bedroom, Jonny stripping his clothes away one piece at a time before they tumble to the bed. They’re kissing and kissing, Jonny’s hands all over him, opening him, Jonny pressing into him as Patrick holds onto him so tight he thinks if he lets go Jonny might disappear.</p>
<p>When Patrick wakes up he’s alone, the sheets and his pajama pants sticking to his thighs and crotch. </p>
<p>“Fuck,” he hisses, and lays there for another five minutes staring up at the plain white ceiling. The  morning light is creeping in, bright and gray, cold.</p>
<p>He stays as still as he can, hoping maybe he’ll wake up once more, that this moment is the mirage. </p>
<p>Outside of his door he can hear Tyler moving around, the beep of the coffee machine, and soft, muffled static of the television.</p>
<p>When it becomes too uncomfortable to stay in bed any longer, Patrick peels himself out of bed, out of his clothes and goes to the shower. He stands under the hot spray for so long he loses track of time.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The team is on the road for Patrick’s birthday and for Thanksgiving, but two days after that, they have a three-day weekend and Tyler demands to take him out. Patrick isn’t sure what he has planned, or if he has anything planned at all, but Tyler’s persistent when he wants something, and Patrick isn’t in the mood to fight him. </p>
<p>Like, honestly, even he’s getting tired of his own goddamn moping. And he’s sure as hell tired of that couch, even if that knit throw blanket is the comfiest, warmest thing he’s ever had wrapped around him besides...Jonny.</p>
<p><i>Fuck</i>. Goddammit. Son of a bitch motherfucking christ.</p>
<p>He needs to stop. He needs to stop thinking about Jonny. And he definitely needs to stop dreaming about him. If only he could tip his head over Iike a teapot and empty out his thoughts.</p>
<p>“So,” Tyler says, as they’re getting in the car that afternoon. He pulls out a handful of brochures that scream tourist. “We could go to St. Peter’s Island and visit the beach? Although it might be too cold for that.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods in agreement.</p>
<p>“Or we could take a hike up on Taubenloch Gorge,” Tyler suggests.</p>
<p>Patrick’s brow scrunches up in distaste.</p>
<p>“Or maybe not,” Tyler laughs.</p>
<p>They shuffle through a few more of the brochures and look up a few places on their phones, finally deciding on getting lunch in Old Town. After they take a boat ride on Lake Bienne, they wander around the streets of the Bienne for a few hours, exploring shops, the museum mile, and one place in particular named Museum Omega, full of antiques that date back to before America even existed.</p>
<p>Patrick gets caught up in the buildings again, the Romanesque-style church spires and the closely packed buildings with the occasional tree popping up amongst all of the colorful man-made structures. Mostly everyone is on foot or on bike, and it gives Patrick’s eyes so much to look at he feels full up with the energy of the crowd buzzing around him.</p>
<p>He can tell Tyler is beginning to get restless with the endless meandering, and so they end up on the Funicular Biel-Magglingen a short time later. The railway seems innocent enough as Patrick’s getting onto the bus-like structure, but within two minutes they’re riding on tracks that feel like they’re thousands of feet above the ground, Tyler clapping and hollering as Patrick tries not to hurl his lunch all over Tyler’s ugly Tom Ford leather sneakers.</p>
<p>“Isn’t this great!” Tyler whoops, staring out the window like an excited toddler.</p>
<p>“No,” Patrick snaps. “I hate it.”</p>
<p>Tyler elbows him in the side, giggling. “Open your eyes, PK. You’re missing it.”</p>
<p>“Fuck you,” Patrick murmurs. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”</p>
<p>Tyler pats at his knee placatingly. “You’re so dramatic.”</p>
<p>“We could die!” Patrick pushes Tyler’s hand away, wrapping his arms around his middle. </p>
<p>When he feels the entire car sway he reaches out and grabs onto the first solid thing he can hold onto, which just so happens to be the handle on the top of the seat in front of him and the stranger’s shoulder in said seat.</p>
<p>The man, middle-aged and red-haired, turns to give Patrick a questioning look and Patrick snatches his arm back.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry!” he says. “No, I mean, pardon?”</p>
<p>The guy just looks at him, a smile forming.</p>
<p>“Uh,” Patrick says and tries to remember the word for ‘excuse me’ in German. It was long and had a lot of letters. Too many letters. Entechdegong? No. Entschuldidun? Close but not quite. Fuck, why does it have so many letters? He whips out his phone and types the English words into his translation app. </p>
<p>
  <i>Entschuldigung Sie!</i>
</p>
<p>“En-shy-dee-gong,” he tries, and fails, miserably.</p>
<p>“Danke,” the man smiles. “Cheers!”</p>
<p>Patrick’s very confused and possibly very dumb, so he just throws out a little wave and tells the man, “Cheers,” in return.</p>
<p>When he turns back to Tyler he finds him snickering, his trademark grin stretched wide over his mouth in amusement. “Nice one, Kaner.”</p>
<p>“Shut up,” Patrick huffs. He rolls his eyes, fighting the smile that wants to come. He is not having a good time in this train car of death. And he’s not looking out the window until they’re on solid land again. “I hate you.”</p>
<p>“You love me,” Tyler says. “You can’t imagine your life without me now.”</p>
<p>“You’re full of shit.”</p>
<p>“I bring light into your days and joy into your nights.”</p>
<p>Now it’s Patrick's turn to snicker, a snort popping out as he says, “You bring joy to some dudes’ nights and earplugs into mine.”</p>
<p>His hat gets whacked off his head for that.</p>
<p>Twenty minutes later as they’re exiting the train car, Tyler says, “I bet you’re just as loud in bed.”</p>
<p>For as queasy as Patrick was while practically dangling over open air, now that they’re on the ground again and the sky is turning from a burnt orange into a dusty blue, his stomach begins to grumble and growl for more food.</p>
<p>“You think about me in bed a lot, Segs?” Patrick asks, and notices himself grinning. It’s nice to joke around after an entire month of feeling carved out, all of his pieces put back together wrong.</p>
<p>Tyler sidles up to him, throws an arm around Patrick’s shoulders, and tugs him in close. “I mean you do have a very pretty mouth, Patty. Wanna kiss?” He ducks his head down like he’s about to peck Patrick on the lips. “Just a little kiss-kiss?”</p>
<p>“Fuck off,” Patrick says, pushing Tyler away as he chokes out a laugh. </p>
<p>They’re both cackling as they head to the edge of the road to try to hail a taxi. Around them are a bunch of children with white-blonde hair, speaking German and not paying Tyler or Patrick any attention at all. Their parents on the other hand keep shooting Patrick questioning looks and Patrick’s not sure if it’s because of who he is or him throwing out dirty curse words. But it’s enough to get him to sober up and shake his head, even as Tyler hasn’t lost an ounce of the delight smeared across his face.</p>
<p>“I’m right,” he tells Patrick as they finally get a car to stop for them. “I feel it in my bones.”</p>
<p>Patrick eats the urge to flip him off and gets in the back seat.</p>
<p>For dinner they find a nice seafood restaurant not too far off from where they left the EHC car and sit down to have a few drinks. One turns to three turns to five and by the time their food arrives, Patrick’s both starving like he hasn’t eaten in a thousand years and more than a little drunk. The room moves around him kind of like jello and Patrick’s so loose he thinks he can finally breathe easier for the first time in weeks.</p>
<p>“Okay, so, I have a real question?” Tyler says as he picks up a shrimp from his shrimp linguini, dripping in butter and herbs, and pops it into his mouth, no fork needed.</p>
<p>“Hit me,” Patrick says, popping out one finger gun. It’s not a two finger guns night, not yet. His beer is almost gone and he’s thinking of ordering something with lemon and vodka, or maybe cranberry. The craving for sweetness is itching at the back of his tongue.</p>
<p>“Is Jonny's dick big?”</p>
<p>“<i>What?</i>” Patrick almost spits out the last swig of beer he was in the process of swallowing. </p>
<p>Tyler smirks, the shithead. He picks up another shrimp with his fingers and throws it into his mouth, then wipes his hand off on his napkin. As he’s grabbing his fork and twirling some pasta around on it, he says, “I saw that Cabbie interview, you know the one, and Jonny said his dick is big. So I’m just wondering… is it?”</p>
<p>Patrick suddenly feels a lot less floaty than he was fifteen seconds ago. He sets his now empty bottle down on the table and shifts a few utensils in front of him, trying to think about what he wants to say and knowing his mind is only thinking: <i>yes. YES. The biggest. So big, it’s huge. It’s the Eiffel Tower of dicks, beautiful and French and I miss it, I miss - yes. Every yes ever.</i></p>
<p>“Why would I know?” Patrick says instead, because he’s a coward.</p>
<p>Tyler frowns, leaning his forearms on the table, his eyes searching. “Babe, c’mon. If anyone would know, you would know.”</p>
<p>At this, Patrick looks away and keeps his eyes down, studying the burgundy tablecloth and the tiny white embroidered deer pattern. “Why do you think that?”</p>
<p>Tyler sighs dramatically, throwing his head back like he’s never been more exasperated in his whole entire life. “….Alright. Keep your secrets. My guess is it’s pretty big though.”</p>
<p>The waitress comes by to ask if they need anything and to top up their water glasses, inquiring if they want another alcoholic beverage. Patrick orders a cranberry vodka, because fuck it, and uses the excuse the waitress provides while she’s chatting up Tyler to slip out and go to the bathroom. He takes a quick piss and washes his hands, checks his phone to waste a few minutes, responding to a text from Jackie and another from Jess. There’s a voicemail from his mom he’ll need to listen to later and an email from his dad letting him know he mailed a birthday present to Patrick that should arrive later that week.</p>
<p>“How do you figure?” Patrick asks thirty seconds after he’s returned to the table. </p>
<p>Tyler’s mouth is full of food but that doesn’t stop him from saying, “Huh?” His right eyebrow ticks up in question.</p>
<p>There aren’t a lot of people close to them, the seating area in this particular restaurant is spacious and low lit, inviting. Even if someone nearby could hear there’s a good chance they don’t speak English, or speak English fluently enough to be following along with their conversation and yet Patrick finds himself checking on each side to see if anyone’s paying attention when he says, “Jonny’s dick. How do you figure it’s, um, big?” </p>
<p>Tyler shrugs. “You can just tell by how he walks around.”</p>
<p>Patrick nods like that explains everything, but it doesn’t. And he finds he can’t return to his food or his drink with the same enjoyment, his head spinning as he tries to parse out why Tyler brought it up, why he wants to know, and why he thinks Patrick would have any answers.</p>
<p>The fidgeting starts when he can’t seem to settle back down, even when Tyler begins blabbering about hockey, and then after, locker room gossip.</p>
<p>Patrick knows Tyler has sex with men. He’s heard it with his own ears and yet the idea of letting Tyler know - of being honest about any of it is an agonizing ache that makes his insides feel full of knives.</p>
<p>Fuck.</p>
<p>He doesn’t want to feel this way anymore.</p>
<p>He doesn’t want to be so locked up it makes him sick.</p>
<p>Picking up his cranberry vodka he gulps down two large swallows and smacks the glass back on the table, startling Tyler mid-sentence.</p>
<p>"Why do you think I'd know out of everyone?" Patrick asks, licking the trace of vodka off his lips and trying to breathe evenly.</p>
<p>It’s normal to hear his heartbeat inside of his skull right? Probably.</p>
<p>Tyler clears his throat and watches Patrick’s hands for a moment and the way he’s picking at his cuticles, his expression unusually solemn. “I don’t know, dude. I’ve just seen the way you guys look at each other. It’s pretty intense.” He takes a drink from his own glass, something whiskey-colored and richly golden. “Jonny stares at you like he wants to fuck you through the floor. Guess I thought eventually you’d give in.” </p>
<p>“Oh,” Patrick says.</p>
<p>There’s a long beat where neither of them talk and it’d almost be awkward except Patrick’s brain is too confused between freaking out and fleeing, too slow and drunk, to really let that thought catch hold.</p>
<p>“Am I wrong?” Tyler asks, his voice low. </p>
<p>Patrick goes to speak, but he’s not sure he can.</p>
<p>This is so different from Sharpy finding out. Tyler is a good guy, Patrick knows that. And he wouldn’t throw Patrick under the bus, he has his own stake in this game, his own back to cover. But Tyler also hasn’t known Patrick since he was eighteen, watched out for him like an older brother, protected him, and taken care of him when he was a mess. Tyler is a friend, yes, but is he someone Patrick can trust?</p>
<p>He thinks so, but he can’t be sure unless he chooses to tell Tyler the one thing he’s barely been able to tell himself.</p>
<p>A hand reaches out and touches Patrick, a casual but gentle fist bumping against his forearm. “You know it’s chill, right?” Tyler says, his head tilted to the side, waiting for Patrick to make eye contact. When he does, Tyler looks right at him, so serious Patrick almost doesn’t recognize him for a moment. “Who the hell am I to judge, I like it all. Pretty girl, big tits, big guy, handsome dick.” Tyler smiles, just a little, and shoots Patrick a quick wink. “Okay maybe I like a good dick a little more, but so what? It’s not a bad thing. It just is.” </p>
<p>And well, Patrick’s never thought about it from that perspective before.</p>
<p>“Does anyone know?” he asks. “Back in Boston, I mean.”</p>
<p>Tyler nods, easy, like it’s not a huge deal. “Yeah, a few of the guys do.” </p>
<p>Patrick’s eyes widen, his chest constricting again. “Do they care?” </p>
<p>“Nah. They don’t really want to get into the gritty details, but they don’t give me shit about it - don’t make me feel like an outsider.”</p>
<p>
  <i>Don’t be that guy.</i>
</p>
<p>Is Tyler <i>that</i> guy? Is Patrick supposed to turn away from him? He doesn’t want to. This weight he’s carried and has been carrying...it feels so heavy these days, like it’s suffocating him. And he thought stepping back from Jonny and coming to Switzerland, focusing on hockey, would all help, but it’s only made it worse. He’s being crushed by this mountain on his shoulders and if he doesn’t start chipping away at some of it soon, unloading it, it’s going to break his back and cut him off at the knees. It’s going to flatten him into nothing.</p>
<p>Maybe he’s scared, maybe he’s terrified, and maybe that’s not more important than opening his mouth and spitting out the truth.</p>
<p>Patrick balls his hands into fists and squeezes. He squeezes so hard his knuckles turn white and and all he can focus on is the pressure instead of the thunder of his heartbeat in his ears. </p>
<p>“Yes,” Patrick whispers. </p>
<p>Tyler gives him a confused look, his head cocking to one side.</p>
<p>“We - Jonny and me. We are. Or we did.” </p>
<p>Tyler’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he schools his face into neutral again. He nods. “Are you still?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know.”</p>
<p>“You don’t know?” Tyler asks, his brow furrowed.</p>
<p>Patrick looks down at the table again, at his half-eaten food and his empty beverage glasses, the lit candle in the middle of the table and its small, flickering flame, the scattered silverware, and those tiny tablecloth deer. He feels so homesick for a moment that his eyes burn. “When I left to come here I didn’t tell him until the night before and I. I really hurt him. He said it was over.”</p>
<p>Tyler pats at Patrick’s forearm and withdraws his hand, folds his arms across his chest. “He was probably just pissed off in the moment. I’ve seen Jonny on the ice, dude has a wicked temper." </p>
<p>“Yeah,” Patrick breathes, agreeing. He smiles to himself at the thought, at Jonny’s dumb, angry stick breaking, at his heated arguments with the refs, with his endless need to jump in and rescue a teammate if an opponent even slightly touches them. He’s so stupidly protective, and furious while he does it, his face a bright red and his dark eyes intense enough he could probably melt skin from bones. He’s definitely turned Patrick’s brain into goo more than once with that look.</p>
<p>When Patrick shakes himself from his thoughts, he notices Tyler’s surveying him, amused again.</p>
<p>The smile dissolves from Patrick’s face. “But this was different. I really fucked it up too much this time. I ruined it.”</p>
<p>“I doubt it,” Tyler says, confident in a way Patrick doesn’t understand. “Wanna know why?”</p>
<p>“Okay.”</p>
<p>Tyler leans back in his chair and then moves forward again, sets his elbows on the table. “Because, like I said, he stares at you like he wants to fuck you through the floor. But he also just never stops looking at you. He can’t take his eyes off of you.” He gives Patrick an expression packed full of too many things for Patrick to unravel in this second, caught up in the words Tyler’s relaying. “And when you smile, he smiles. And all that other sappy shit. He isn’t subtle about it, is my point,” Tyler laughs, low. “First time I noticed it was the day I met you guys in 2010. And it’s been true, as far as I can tell, ever since. It made me want...” He trails off and then shakes his head. “Anyway.”</p>
<p>Patrick sits in place, unmoving for a long time, repeating Tyler’s memories in his head. He thinks about them through the rest of dinner, through the drive back to the house, through the hours in between him getting ready to go to bed and all the way up until he falls asleep.</p>
<p>When he wakes up he begins thinking about them again.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>They’re playing the ZSC Lions on home ice in mid December when Camper takes a slashing penalty at the beginning of the third period. The Lions call for a timeout and Coach gathers the first PK unit on the bench to go over their strategy for the upcoming power play. The first PK unit is made up almost entirely of Swiss or German players, and Patrick hears Coach talking in fast-paced German as he draws on his tiny whiteboard. </p>
<p>A German pop song Patrick’s heard on the car radio a few times is playing throughout the arena, upbeat and bubbling, and mostly drowned out by his teammates’ voices talking around him as Coach gives his orders. Tyler on the other end of the bench is giggling about something Patrick can’t hear, half wrestling with Wetz like he’s flirting - and - well, Wetz is over six and a half feet tall so Tyler probably is.</p>
<p>Without meaning to, Patrick finds himself zoning out when he can’t understand what’s being said. And besides, if he’s going to be sitting pretty on the bench for the next two minutes of gameplay does it matter? No. </p>
<p>His mind drifts to the skype call he made yesterday to his sisters. They’d talked while eating lunch and dinner, respectively, and then had an impromptu karaoke session, inviting Tyler to join in when he’d come into the room and caught Patrick singing Call Me Maybe into a hairbrush. Tyler had shown off, as Patrick was learning he loved to do, stripping his shirt open to reveal his chest to the girls' riotous cheers, and belting out Wild Ones by Flo Rida.</p>
<p>They’d all laughed themselves silly, to the point that Patrick was still in a good mood when he’d talked to Sharpy after, alone.</p>
<p>“Just ask.” Sharpy said after they’d been on the call for fifteen minutes and Patrick had inquired about Abby, the girls, the team, Chicago, Stan, the weather, and if Sharpy got a new haircut, exhausting all other avenues of conversation until only one subject was left.</p>
<p>“Ask what?” Patrick said.</p>
<p>“Don’t play dumb, kid. I know you want to ask about Jonny.”</p>
<p>Patrick had sighed, long and exasperated. “If you know then why make me ask?”</p>
<p>That time it was Sharpy’s turn to sigh. A small laugh puffing out at the end, like he couldn’t help himself. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “The two of you are gonna put me in an early grave, I swear to god. You deserve each other.”</p>
<p>Patrick bit down on his curving lip and balled his fists at his side. “Just tell me. Please. How is he?”</p>
<p>In the background there was a high-pitched giggle as Patrick heard tiny feet stomping down the hallway, larger feet following right after.</p>
<p>“No one tells you what horrors await you when babies finally learn to walk,” Sharpy said, glancing over his shoulder to look at whatever was happening off camera. “Anyway, he’s fine. Maybe a little quiet. And sad I think, even though he’d rather take a fist to the face than say it. But overall he’s okay. He’s keeping busy.”</p>
<p>“With the NHLPA?”</p>
<p>Sharpy nodded. “Yeah. He’s there everyday, and he’s ruthless, fighting for us. I’m impressed, you know? Like I don’t expect any less from him, but the guy’s got balls, going head to head with everyone from Toronto like that and never flinching. And when he’s in Chicago he rents out Johnny’s Ice House West some days, practices with a few of the guys who’ve stayed in town. There’s a pee-wee team,” Sharpy had shaken his head, amused in his thoughts. “They use the ice after,  and when they realized that Hawks players were practicing right before them the whole team started to show up early to watch. One day Jonny invited them to come out on the ice too and spent his whole practice teaching twelve year olds how to shoot top shelf and answering every single hockey question they could possibly come up with. Half of them were about you.”</p>
<p>Patrick blinked, unsure if he wanted to know. “What’d they ask?”</p>
<p>Sharpy had waved him off. “Oh, you know the usual: How’s it playing with Kaner? Do you like playing with Patrick Kane? Do you think he’s the best American hockey player to ever play the game?”</p>
<p>There was a pause, Sharpy waiting, forcing Patrick to voice this want, too. “What did Jonny say? ‘Hell no!’?”</p>
<p>Sharpy rolled his eyes. “He said, ‘There’s no one better.’”</p>
<p>As the German pop song fades out, Patrick’s drawn back to the present. A new song begins to play when one of the equipment managers offers Patrick a towel to wipe his face and visor. He does, handing it back and reaching out for his water bottle, going through the motions of getting himself ready to go back out on the ice as soon as the power play ends.</p>
<p>It hits Patrick now that what he was feeling then, through the rush of the storm in his ears and the tide of overwhelming heaviness swiftly crashing into him and gliding off of his shoulders... was relief. It left him raw and empty, but in a new way he isn't sure how to define yet.</p>
<p>What he does know is that for almost the last two months he’s been assuming Jonny hates him, that everything between them for the last three years is ashes, and Patrick was the one to light that match but Jonny was the one content to watch it all burn down. He thought they were done, he thought it was gone.</p>
<p>And maybe it is gone, maybe it is done, but some part of Jonny still thinks Patrick is  good - the best. He’ll hold onto that with everything he has.</p>
<p>Coach stops talking, and the noise of the crowd finally drops away enough for the music to cut through. It takes Patrick a few seconds to realize it’s Paint It Black by The Rolling Stones. He chokes out a wet laugh that gets stuck to the back of his throat as a memory comes to him. One of Jonny playing this song every single day, multiple times a day throughout the 2010 playoff run. He played it so much Patrick was constantly mouthing the words to it unconsciously, so much he dreamed about it, so much Patrick never wanted to hear it again in his whole entire life.</p>
<p>He hears it in this moment and has to shut his blurry eyes. </p>
<p><i>Fuck</i>, he loves Jonny. </p>
<p>He does. </p>
<p>He loves him so much it hurts, so much he’s about to lose it, sitting as still as he can he’s practically shaking in the middle of a goddamn game, on the bench, in an arena thousands of miles from home, all because of a stupid song.</p>
<p>He’s mouthing the lyrics to himself because even now he remembers them all by heart, like he remembers the laugh lines around Jonny’s eyes, the happy sound of his laugh at two in the morning muffled by a pillow, his warm hands brushing possessively over Patrick’s skin, the woodsy scent of his neck after a long shower, the flush of his cheeks when he’s angry, the soft touch of his lips when he kissed Patrick like nothing else in the world mattered.</p>
<p>So many of Patrick’s thoughts and feelings are caught up in Jonny, and have been for years. He just didn’t recognize them for what they were, wouldn’t let himself unpack what it meant to think of Jonny when he woke up, when he went to bed, and all the minutes in between.</p>
<p>It aches.</p>
<p>It hurts because it’s real, and it’s worth it. Falling for Jonny has been worth every step of uncertainty, every eviscerating fear, every agonizing second he was forced out of hiding. </p>
<p>Patrick would choose it again if he could, but then, Jonny was never a choice. </p>
<p>Jonny was only ever inevitable.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Chapter 14</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2012</b>
</p>
<p>Now that Patrick understands what’s going on inside of his head, he tries to move on with his life instead of waiting for a giant cartoon anvil to drop out of the sky and land on his head, crushing him. It’s not like anyone can see what he’s feeling, he knows that, but he’s exposed in this new way without his blinders on, and logic tells him if he can see it, maybe others can too, maybe they can tell.</p>
<p>But nothing changes. Patrick goes to practices, he goes to games, he sits in the locker room with his teammates, only ever half-understanding what’s being said around him, and not a single guy acts any different, not even Tyler.</p>
<p>It leaves a restlessness inside of Patrick he’s unfamiliar with. There isn’t anything dark and looming about it, but there is an urgency, a need to know more, about himself, about his wants, about experiences other than his own. He spends one afternoon googling anything he can possibly think of involving the phrases: ‘Gay?’, and ‘Does liking dick mean I’m into all men?’, and ‘I love my best friend. What should I do?’.</p>
<p>What he receives in return is mostly a large collection of results that give him mixed responses and unhelpful answers. Like, okay, he already knows being in love with Jonny changes things. And he’s pretty certain the feelings he has for Jonny didn’t just poof into existence the moment he figured it out during that game the other day. It probably wasn’t even the moment Jonny first stuck his dick in Patrick’s ass in 2010 after the cup win or the time Patrick put his mouth on said dick in the hotel room for his birthday in 2009.</p>
<p>If he had to distill it down, it was probably that dumb Cabbie interview.</p>
<p>And if not that, it was definitely the dick math.</p>
<p>Good God, he did way too much mental dick gymnastics for someone who was only supposed to be mildly curious. The dicknastics should’ve tipped him off.</p>
<p>Either way, he still doesn’t have any answers. </p>
<p>It’s the following afternoon when the idea to go to Tyler pops into Patrick’s head. He lets it stew there for a few days, trying to decide what he wants to say. Until finally Patrick gets frustrated enough that he just walks up while Tyler’s in the middle of watching the European version of Survivor and mutes the TV.</p>
<p>“Hey!” Tyler grumbles half-heartedly and tries to reach for the remote.</p>
<p>Patrick drops it on the chair behind him and takes a seat at the edge of a cushion, cupping his hands around his knees and rubbing his palms over his jeans. “Can I ask you some questions?” </p>
<p>One of Tyler’s eyebrows rises. “What kind of questions? Kinky questions?”</p>
<p>Patrick blows out a nervous laugh. “Not exactly.”</p>
<p>Tyler squints at him, eyes searching for a minute before he sits up from where he was lounging horizontally on the couch. “I’m intrigued, go on.”</p>
<p>“They’re kind of...personal.”</p>
<p>“But not kinky?”</p>
<p>“Dude.”</p>
<p>“Just checking.” Tyler laughs. He notices the way Patrick sickly swallows, his expression shifting into something more solemn. “Sorry. What’s up?”</p>
<p>“You can say no if you want,” Patrick explains. He wipes his palms on his knees again. Jesus, they’re so clammy.</p>
<p>“I know,” Tyler says, easy.</p>
<p>And Patrick feels stupid. “I mean obviously you can. I was just - anyway. Um.” He pulls a folded-up piece of notebook paper from his pocket and opens it, smoothing it out over his thigh until it lays flat. When he repeats the process twice, the room goes as silent as he is.</p>
<p>“Did you write your questions down?” Tyler looks amused.</p>
<p>“Yes. So I wouldn’t forget.”</p>
<p>There’s a smirk forming at the edge of Tyler’s mouth, his eyes crinkling in that way that means he thinks Patrick’s adorable, like a small, stumbling kitten or maybe a chipmunk with its cheeks full of nuts. “You’re real cute, PK.”</p>
<p>“Shut up,” Patrick snaps. He begins jiggling his right leg, trying to work up his nerve to read from the list.</p>
<p>Tyler holds up his hands placatingly and then quiets, waiting while Patrick gathers his thoughts. It takes him one minute, then two, then a few more. Eventually he tucks his chin to his chest and focuses on the words he’s already mostly memorized.</p>
<p>“How old were you the first time?”</p>
<p>“The first time I what?” Tyler asks.</p>
<p>Patrick swallows. “You were with a guy, er, knew you were into them. Either. Both.”</p>
<p>“Seventeen,” Tyler says instantly.</p>
<p>Without thinking about it, Patrick’s head tilts upward, his eyes landing on Tyler and surveying his expression. “For which question?”</p>
<p>“Both.” </p>
<p>“Oh. That’s uh, you knew that early?”</p>
<p>Tyler shrugs, unbothered, and nonchalant as usual. “I probably had an idea at like fifteen, maybe fourteen, actually. But I didn’t let myself think about it until I got drunk with my buddy Nat at a party after a game one night, when we gave each other handies in the second-story bathroom.”</p>
<p><i>Fifteen</i>. It’s so young and yet Patrick remembers having a thing for Heather Dabrowski at fourteen and never questioning it. Her older brother, Laurence, was just as good-looking as his sister, but an entire foot taller. He played for the under-18 Honeybaked team and made Patrick’s stomach go funny every time he walked into a room. At the time, and for years after, Patrick told himself it was because Laurence was older, he was intimidating, he made Patrick feel small just by standing next to him, and he tousled Patrick’s hair sometimes like Patrick was perpetually ten years old.</p>
<p>But maybe that wasn’t it.</p>
<p>Maybe he liked the attention even if it was innocent on Laurence’s end, and only friendly. When he’d smile at Patrick and tease him about Heather or tell Patrick his goal in a previous game was ‘a beaut,’ it left Patrick glowing for hours afterwards, more than the makeout sessions in Heather’s bedroom, possibly more than the handjob she gave Patrick on his sixteenth birthday.</p>
<p>Christ.</p>
<p>He smooths out the paper on his thigh once more and bites at the inside of his cheek. “Right. And did you ever think it could just be, like, a phase?” </p>
<p>“No,” Tyler says, just as quickly. “Never.”</p>
<p>“Why not?”</p>
<p>Tyler laughs. “Because I like it too much. I like how it feels. I like how it turns me on,” he says, brimming with a confidence Patrick finds almost jarring. “And I like women too, but it’s not the same. Not for me anyway.”</p>
<p>Outside a truck rumbles by on the road, loud and clanking, and Patrick watches it through the window as it disappears out of sight, his breath tight in his chest. He had thought asking these questions would make him feel better, that knowing would open up a doorway of relief, but it’s just turning the wrench attached to his sternum harder and harder. He thinks he might crack open any second now.</p>
<p>He needs to know, but knowing feels scarier than he expected. The want to go up to his room and shove his head under a pillow and turn off his brain is overwhelming in its intensity.</p>
<p>“What if,” Patrick starts, and stops. He exhales slowly, his leg about five seconds from wiggling off his body entirely. “What if a teammate found out and didn’t like it?”</p>
<p>Tyler gets up from where he’s sitting and walks over to Patrick. He drags him to the couch so they’re sitting beside one another and wraps an arm around his shoulders. “Then they can not like it and stay away from me or get the fuck over it. It’s not my problem, it’s theirs.”</p>
<p>It’s easier to talk this way, without having to try to meet Tyler’s gaze head-on. Patrick stares down at his lap.</p>
<p>“And what if your family didn’t support it?”</p>
<p>At this question Tyler finally hesitates, looking out in front of him, maybe at the window, maybe at the wall, his eyes bouncing around from place to place like his thoughts must be, before he lets out a long, sobering sigh. “Then I’d be devastated, but I can’t change what’s me, you know?” he says, his expression forlorn. “And I’d have to figure out a way to help them come around or let them go because I can’t pretend I’m something I’m not and neither can you.”</p>
<p>“Me?” Patrick gestures to himself, like he’s confused, but he’s not and he’s unsure who he’s even trying to convince anymore. “I’m…”</p>
<p>Tyler squeezes his shoulder, pulling him a little closer, his lips pressed together as he nods. “Yeah, you, Patrick.”</p>
<p>It’s too much.</p>
<p>Patrick can’t sit still any longer. He jumps up from the couch, shaking out his arms and legs like he can shake off whatever this fucking feeling is that’s crawling all over him, trying to get inside of him. But it’s not <i>trying</i>. Whatever this is - it's already in there, it’s been there the whole time, and he doesn’t know what to do with that.</p>
<p>“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” Patrick says, and he sounds out of breath to his own ears. He turns away from Tyler and stares unseeing out the window again. “I just...I know I want Jonny.” He walks to the window and presses his forehead against it, feeling the cool glass against his overheated skin. It’s calming. “And I want to be okay, I guess.”</p>
<p>He waits for Tyler to say it will be okay; that's what he’s expecting. It’s what Erica or Sharpy would probably say. It’s what he desperately wants to hear.</p>
<p>Instead Tyler says, very matter of fact, “You don’t have to know right away. You’ll figure it out. The other stuff will come later, even if it’s messy. It takes time.”</p>
<p>“How much time?” </p>
<p>“I don’t know.” Tyler lets out a soft, amused huff. “It’s different for everyone. You can - actually, you know what? I have an idea. Get your jacket and shoes on.”</p>
<p>Patrick turns from the window. “Why?”</p>
<p>Tyler smacks his hands against his thighs and stands, that ever-present devious smile back on his face. “We’re going on a little field trip. Go get your wallet too. C’mon.”</p>
<p>“Okay,” he says skeptically and watches Tyler bolt out of the room, to presumably put on his own shoes and grab his own wallet.</p>
<p>They’re out the door four minutes later.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“What are we doing here?” Patrick asks when they walk up in front of a store named Magic X Erotic Megastore at thirty minutes past three. The sign isn’t lit up with the sun still out, but it is huge and bold, screaming out exactly what it claims to be to anyone close enough to read it.</p>
<p>“You need to experiment.” Tyler says, eyes twinkling and looking all for the world like a kid about to walk into a candy store with a hundred bucks in his pocket.</p>
<p>Patrick’s forehead wrinkles. “With porn?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, porn.” Tyler nods. “Straight porn, gay porn, bi porn, kinky porn, all of the above. Try some toys, hell try some costumes. Figure out what you like. Treat yo self!”</p>
<p>He doesn’t wait for Patrick to reply, jetting up to the door and practically skipping inside. </p>
<p>“Uh, okay.” Patrick stares at the outside of the store for another minute, trying to decide what to do. </p>
<p>He could go back to the car and wait for Tyler to get...whatever the hell he’s going to buy, but he can’t deny he isn’t curious.</p>
<p>When an elderly couple walk by and give Patrick a once over, it jolts him into motion, and he follows Tyler inside, expecting to be stared at the moment he enters. Instead the clerk at a nearby counter, who has green-streaked hair and a silver nose ring, calls out, “Hallo! Bonjour!” and waves when she sees Patrick walk in.</p>
<p>The front part of the shop is filled floor to ceiling with toys, from handcuffs, nipple clamps, and collars, to vibrators, cock rings, anal beads, blow-up dolls, clit pumps, penis pumps, fleshlights, and every variation of dildo possibly known to man. There’s a red curtain towards the back of the store that leads to the porno movies and another door at the other corner of the store marked Peep Shows. </p>
<p>Tyler has disappeared from the front part of the shop; Patrick has no idea which doorway he’s gone through and he’s not sure he wants to find out, but he does see a very interesting thing called a ‘rabbit’ that catches his eye. Turns out after a few minutes of reading the description on the box it’s mostly meant for vaginas and clits. He sets it gingerly back on the hook and lets his eyes scan over the rest of the dildos, from the realistic flesh-colored ones, to the neon ones that come in frankly several frightening shapes and sizes. </p>
<p>Eventually he lands on one that’s purple. It’s sparkly in just the right light and reminds Patrick of his beloved Hummer back home. Most importantly, it’s just about the length and girth of Jonny’s cock, and maybe that shouldn’t be the driving factor here for why it’s so appealing, but it’s absolutely the number one reason. Without letting himself think about it too much he picks it up and holds it, packaging and all, in his hands, and checks it out from every angle. There’s a water-based bottle of lube within reaching distance and he grabs that too (because Jonny said water-based lube was best with silicone toys), and then walks up to the clerk. </p>
<p>He buys it in a haze, not making full-on eye contact with the clerk even once, and then hurries from the store with his black plastic bag of items and goes to hide out in the car until Tyler’s done.</p>
<p>He waits and waits and waits. He waits more than a half an hour, his black bag sitting brazenly between his feet, staring back up at him as if to say, 'Open me, Patrick. Play with me. You know you want to.'</p>
<p>Fuck you, bag. He doesn't.</p>
<p>Maybe he'll throw it away when they get back to the house.</p>
<p>Take that, you dumbass bag!</p>
<p>"Find anything good?" Tyler asks after he's opened the driver's side door to the car.</p>
<p>Patrick jerks, unaware of his approach, and too lost in his weird, anxious thoughts.</p>
<p>"Yeah," he says.</p>
<p>Tyler laughs. "'Yeah'? That's all I get? Just a 'yeah'?"</p>
<p>"No, you also get a: what took you so fucking long? Can we go now?" Patrick bites back.</p>
<p>Tyler laughs again and takes a seat, closing his door and then starting the car. As he's beginning to pull out of the parking lot he says, "You should be nice to me, PK. I got you presents."</p>
<p>Immediately Patrick's brought back to the time Jonny teased him with a similar offer. That offer being the collection of five anal plugs that led to them working Patrick's hole open enough to take Jonny's huge dick. The same five plugs Patrick has hidden away in one of his suitcases because he couldn't stand not to bring them when he was packing. He’s used them a couple times, mostly just when he aches with the emptiness of missing Jonny, less focused on getting off than feeling full.</p>
<p>The idea of discovering whatever item Tyler bought him at the sex shop is intriguing, but it doesn't fill Patrick with the same kind of tummy-fluttering desire as just the potential of Jonny's gift did. And of course it doesn't, it never could, because Tyler is just a friend and Jonny's...Jonny is everything he wants.</p>
<p>And everything he can no longer have.</p>
<p>Patrick sighs, forcing himself to smile. If Tyler is attempting to cheer him up and help him with his sexual awakening or whatever-the-fuck, Patrick should be less morose and more grateful. "What'd you get me? I mean, thank you."</p>
<p>Tyler rolls his eyes, but he doesn't look annoyed. "I'll show you when we get home."</p>
<p>Back at the house, Patrick stows away his black bag under his pillow and is immediately handed another bag as he returns to the living room.</p>
<p>"This is for your journey," Tyler says. "Your self-journey, of love." He sounds very proud of himself.</p>
<p>Patrick opens the bag to see at least five porno DVDs, a tub of lube named Boy Butter, two pocket pussies with one shaped like an ass, a vibrating flesh-colored dildo, a cock ring, and a metal anal plug with a pink heart-shaped base.</p>
<p>"Uh." He stares down at the collection of toys and videos he's been given, his head spinning. "This is a lot."</p>
<p>"Yes," Tyler nods. "Go forth, my child, and discover your true potential." He brings his hands together as if in prayer and bows.</p>
<p>"You're an idiot," Patrick says.</p>
<p>Tyler smiles wide enough almost all of his teeth show. "You're welcome." Then he turns around, grabs the car keys he set down when they first walked back in, his coat too, and says. "I'll go pick up dinner and give you some alone time."</p>
<p>Patrick's still trying not to gape down at the toys in his bag as the door clicks shut.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The first porno he runs on the DVD player in the living room has a title Patrick can’t read - he can't read any of them, actually - but that’s not really important, nor is the fact that none of the actors are speaking English, either. Patrick isn’t here to critique their acting skills and the plot, thin as it is, is already apparent by the school girl uniform on the pig-tailed woman and the tweed jacket on the man sitting at a large oak desk.</p>
<p>They’re flirting in German as the schoolgirl walks up to the professor’s desk and bends herself over it, lifting her pleated skirt and offering her bare ass to him. Things progress from some mild spanking to her on her knees, giving him a blow job, and then some entirely expected desk fucking, with the schoolgirl on her back as the professor pumps his dick into her. It’s not anything new or exciting, not anything Patrick couldn’t have found by simply pulling up Pornhub on his cellphone. And while it makes his cock jerk seeing the professor come on the schoolgirl’s ass and rub himself over her naked backside, he doesn’t feel turned on exactly, nor is there any burning urge to slide his hand down his pants and touch himself. </p>
<p>He doesn’t even reach for the bag of toys.</p>
<p>The next DVD Patrick reaches for has two women in lingerie on the front. There’s a whole story at the beginning of this one in French, the two women talking to each other as they try on various items of clothing before all attempt at a plot is forgotten as the women, one a petite curly haired redhead and the other a tall, dark haired woman with a ponytail, begin making out on a huge bed. The sheets are a pristine white and they spend a good amount of time kissing and licking at each other’s breasts, their pink tongues swirling around erect nipples. That turns Patrick on more than anything the straight porn had going on and he palms at himself a few times, unzipping his pants, drawing them down underneath his balls. He fists his dick loosely, the touch dry and a little uncomfortable. He’s barely wet at the tip and if he wants to move this along he’ll need to grab for the lube, but he gets caught up in watching the women for a beat, the soft curves of their bodies, their smooth skin and lack of hair, the shiny gloss of their lips and perfectly manicured nails.</p>
<p>They’re absolutely gorgeous and Patrick likes watching them, he could probably even get off to them if he tried, they certainly seem to be enjoying each other more genuinely than the straight couple, but he just.</p>
<p>He doesn’t need it.</p>
<p>There’s no heat.</p>
<p>Flopping back against the couch Patrick tilts his head up and closes his eyes, tries to imagine what turns him on the quickest, what makes his stomach twist and his toes curl, his balls tighten and his cock leak. There’s a flash and then there’s Jonny above him, pressing him down to the bed, that stupid smirk on his lips, and his muscular arms hemming Patrick in. Fuck.</p>
<p>No.</p>
<p>No, that’s not what he’s doing here. This isn’t supposed to be about Jonny. He can’t have Jonny.</p>
<p>Patrick glances at the wall clock and notices that an hour has almost passed. He should probably put everything away and try again tomorrow, before Tyler returns and accidentally walks in on Patrick trying - failing - to masturbate.</p>
<p>Christ, this is embarrassing. When he was eighteen he could get off just imagining shoving his face between a nice pair of juicy tits, a pretty mouth wrapped around his dick, any warm wet hole squeezing around him. Now he can’t even touch himself without thinking of Jonny. Like Jonny’s hardwired into his brain. </p>
<p>Like Jonny’s dick has ruined him for everyone and everything else.</p>
<p>That can’t be true. He’s just not trying hard enough, he’s not putting his full effort forth. If this was hockey Patrick wouldn’t give up until he perfected whatever it was he had in mind to work on, whether it be his stickhandling, his puck handling, executing a certain play, or potting a goal. He’d keep at it until he achieved it. Same principle works here.</p>
<p>Picking up the bag, Patrick rifles through the other DVDs until he sees one with two big, hairy men in leather on the cover, and then another with a skinny blond guy and an older man with silver hair, weird tattoos, and eyes as big as a cow’s. He goes with the latter, unsure of what it involves as the title just says “Baby” and nothing else. Popping it in, Patrick jiggles his leg as he waits for the menu to appear and to click into the first of three forty-minute scenes, each one with a different pairing of younger and older men. The first pairing is the one on the box and there’s no lead-in, and no talking, just the two men in an elegant indoor pool, swimming around naked until the silver fox swims up between the blond’s legs where he’s perched, sitting at the edge of the pool, and begins sucking at his thighs, licking at his wet skin, and mouthing at his balls. After a handful of minutes that shifts to him sucking the blond’s dick, then gently coaxing him to lay back on the marble floor and spread his thighs so the silver fox can lean in from where he’s still in the pool and begin rimming the blond’s hole.</p>
<p>The blond exhales a breathy, punched-out moan that sends a sizzling of electricity to Patrick’s groin. He feels a thick stream of precome spill from the slit of his cockhead and onto his fist. Without thinking he gathers it in his palm and spreads it all over his crown and down the length of himself, his hips jerking up. That stirring in his belly is beginning to come awake, the hunger in it new and alive. Patrick watches the couple on screen shift from the pool to a lounge chair not far away, moving against each other eagerly, the blond climbing onto the other man’s lap and sinking achingly slow down onto his dick. It’s not a particularly big dick, even if it’s nicely shaped and fills the blond’s ass up so well Patrick leaks another strand of precome onto his knuckles, his balls tightening. As far as dicks go it could definitely be bigger, thicker, longer, and overall better. It’s the B-minus of dicks, if he’s being honest.</p>
<p>Anyway. </p>
<p>Patrick’s not close to coming, not yet, but it’s there now, in a way that’s terrifyingly clear. </p>
<p>This isn’t a passing want. It isn’t gone just because he’s not with Jonny. </p>
<p>It’s here and it’s within him, a part of him.</p>
<p>This is real.</p>
<p>Everything he’s tried to push away for so long comes rushing upon him like he’s inside of a room that’s quickly shrinking, growing darker and darker as the walls pull in. Patrick drops his arms to his sides and bends forward, rests his head between his knees, trying to breathe.</p>
<p>There’s an invisible fist around his throat and it’s squeezing, squeezing, squeezing. He blinks, panting like he’s run five miles, light-headed and wanting to rip off his skin. Closing his eyes, Patrick grabs at the couch cushions beside him as he forces himself to inhale slowly, wait, and then exhale. He does it a second time, even slower, hearing the way it comes out shaky and broken. A third time. A fourth. By the fifth, his breathing is steadier but his head feels dizzy and he badly wants to lay down to a take nap.<br/>No. No, he can’t. He has to see this through. He can’t push this away anymore, can’t run away from it like he has before. It’ll only leave him just as lost as he is now.</p>
<p>Outside the sky has gone from a light blue twilight to almost entirely black, the wind picking up and whistling as snow begins to lightly fall.<br/>On the screen there’s moaning as the two figures move as one, undulating and gliding together then away from each other. Patrick stares at the big hands on the blond’s ass, watches the long fingers press against skin, pull, dig in, wanting. He remembers the last time Jonny touched him with such intent, every time, but especially that last time, the way he was so casually possessive. Nobody has ever made Patrick feel that wanted in his entire life. And maybe it didn’t feel that way to Jonny, maybe he’s like that with everyone he fucks, taking them apart with every ounce of his attention and his skillful hands, taking control of them like he takes over the ice, the team, the entire world around him.</p>
<p>“Goddammit,” Patrick hisses, clenching his hands into fists. </p>
<p>This isn’t supposed to be about Jonny. He has to stop thinking about Jonny.</p>
<p>In a spiteful, screwed up display of resistance, Patrick stares holes into the TV screen once more and refuses to let himself think as he jacks his dick, watching the blond being fucked on his hands and knees as the silver fox pulls on his hair and tells him he looks, “So good around my cock.” </p>
<p>Patrick pumps up into his fist until he’s almost there and then he shuts off the TV and walks back to his room, his dick still out in the open and bobbing as he passes through the door, shuts, and locks it behind him. He goes to his suitcase that’s sitting beside the closet and flips open the unzipped flap, pulling back shirts and a pair of pants until he gets to a second zipper where his plugs have been hidden this whole time. Withdrawing them now, he takes them to the bed and sets them beside his black bag with the dildo inside.</p>
<p>Patrick looks between them for a moment before thinking, fuck it, and goes for the bag. He can use one of the plugs after. Going back to his bag, he retrieves some wet wipes and then opens the packaging holding the dildo, cleans it off, quickly sheds the rest of his clothes, grabs the new lube, and gets on the bed.</p>
<p>It takes him a while to finger himself open, and he realizes he’s not used to doing this part alone. Mostly it’s been...well. It hasn’t been his own fingers stretching him and working him open. He feels out of practice and clumsy with it, struggling to get three in there and barely able to get the forth. </p>
<p>Blowing out a frustrated breath, the top of his hairline sweaty and damp, Patrick gives up and reaches for the dildo. He just wants the damn thing inside of him so he can sink down onto it and get off like the blond in the porno. He wants to come hard enough he can fall into oblivion and not have another thought pass through his head for a few hours. Please.</p>
<p>Once he’s on his knees, holding the dildo to his hole and trying to feed it in, he feels his body hesitate, like it isn’t ready. Patrick pushes it in anyway, pushes past the achy feeling he loves, past the burn he’s used to that eventually recedes, to the stinging that makes him have to fold over on his arms and take several long heaving breaths. </p>
<p><i>You should stop</i>, a voice in his head says. It isn’t his own.</p>
<p>Patrick doesn’t listen, screwing the dildo a few inches further inside him until it’s far enough in he can at least feel full with it, split in half and open, raw. It hurts when he begins to fuck it in and out of himself and he doesn’t care. When he grazes his prostate and cries out, jerking forward, he cares about one thousand percent less - he cares negative percent.<br/>Instead he imagines he’s that blond riding the silver fox on top of the lounge chair, the water from the pool still drying on his overheated skin. The silver fox touches Patrick’s chest, his nipples, fingers trailing down his abs to his belly and his cock, where it’s bouncing up and down as he moves.</p>
<p>Patrick closes his eyes, losing himself in it, in the fantasy, in the wanting and the having.</p>
<p>He imagines two big hands reaching up to cup his waist, gripping at him fiercely, and thrusting hard inside of him. Harder, harder, but not quite enough. </p>
<p>“I love your sweet little hole, Peeks,” Jonny said to him once. They were in the middle of a long weekend during the spring of 2011, and they’d spent most of the day on and off in bed, sleeping and eating and fucking. “It’s so greedy for me, for more. You’re pulling me in so tight, like you can’t get enough.”</p>
<p>Patrick had whimpered on his hands and knees, fists tangled in the sheets, as he moved himself back and forth on Jonny’s cock as Jonny was trying to tease a third orgasm out of him that night. “Want you.”</p>
<p>Jonny laughed. “Want me to what?” He’d paused just to make the torture more exquiste and Patrick was half out of his mind with the need to come.</p>
<p>“Fuck me. Press me down,” he begged. “Hold me - hold me down.”</p>
<p>There was a shuddering exhale from behind Patrick, Jonny’s fingers digging into his skin, almost too deep, and then relaxing. Those hands gentling, caressing over Patrick’s skin tenderly. Patrick had clenched down around Jonny then to feel him shiver again and was delighted by the way Jonny’s hips jack-knifed forward, like he couldn’t control himself, like he had to be deeper inside of Patrick.</p>
<p>“Fuck, baby,” Jonny had said, panting. “You take it so good you make me lose my goddamn mind. You know that?”</p>
<p>“I do?”</p>
<p>Jonny leaned closer in, until his entire chest was plastered to Patrick’s back, until he could wrap his arms around Patrick’s torso and keep him there, pressing them together. A kiss touched the nape of Patrick’s neck, sweet and lingering as Jonny had said, “You always do.”</p>
<p>It’d set Patrick off immediately then and it does again now as Patrick comes hurtling back to reality, clenching around the huge dildo shoved up inside of him. He comes all over the cheerfully bright yellow and white embroidered bedspread without even touching his own dick, collapsing onto his side when his orgasm is completely wrung out of him. For long minutes after, he stares at the wall and imagines this is that same night in Chicago, in Jonny’s apartment. He’s not thousands of miles away in Switzerland, he’s not spiraling, and he hasn’t left his life back home shattered.</p>
<p>For just this moment, he’s in Jonny’s bed, listening to Jonny walk to the bathroom to get a washcloth that he’ll use to softly clean Patrick up, and then he’ll slide into bed and curl around Patrick as they fall asleep together. In the morning they’ll do it all over again, and again. And then they’ll go play amazing hockey together. </p>
<p>That’s what Patrick wants.</p>
<p>The truth is, if he stripped away everything else, it’s all he’s ever wanted.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>On Christmas Eve, while Patrick’s Skyping with his family, Tyler goes out to fetch them dinner and comes back with two full cases of Heineken and three bottles of Goldschläger.</p>
<p>“Are we having a party?” Patrick asks, eyeing the alcohol as Tyler makes three trips to the car and back to retrieve everything.</p>
<p>“Party for two.” Tyler grins. Then proceeds to rip open one of the cases of Heineken to pull out a can and toss it Patrick’s way.</p>
<p>Probably for the best Patrick had just hung up with his parents five minutes prior.</p>
<p>They eat pizza and garlic bread for dinner from a place Tyler tells Patrick is called Sotto Sopra. “It’s authentic Italian,” Tyler explains.</p>
<p>Patrick’s not sure if he’s just used to American Italian food or if the Swiss version is different but the sauce tastes too sweet for his liking even if the crust is buttery and flaky. </p>
<p>Elf is playing on cable with a French dub over the voices, but they watch it anyway, because, Patrick suspects, it feels normal in a way not much else does right now. And he hasn’t asked anyone this week about any news of the lockout ending, too scared to hear that it's going to be extended, that he’s going to have to finish out the rest of the season thousands of miles from home, from family, from everything he loves.</p>
<p>At that thought Patrick polishes off his can of beer, grabs another and finishes it off too before grabbing one more. Beside him Tyler whistles.</p>
<p>“Damn, Kaner,” Tyler says. “You can really take one down.”</p>
<p>“I can really take a lot down,” he says without thinking about it.</p>
<p>Tyler giggles. “I bet you can. But watch this.”</p>
<p>Patrick watches as Tyler opens two cans, pops the tabs, tilts his head back, and upends both of them right into his waiting mouth, without even flinching. It’s kind of impressive, but not as much as the ear piercing blech he lets out afterward.</p>
<p>“That burned a little,” Tyler says, choking on a cough.</p>
<p>Not one to be outdone, Patrick picks up two new cans of his own, opens them, and repeats the process, not letting one drop fall out of his mouth the entire time. He licks his lips clean once he’s done, tilting his head at Tyler after he’s finished. “Ta daaa!”</p>
<p>Tyler splutters.</p>
<p>“I’ve been doing this shit since you were in high school, kid.” Patrick smirks.</p>
<p>“Fuck you, grandpa,” Tyler says. “I outlasted everyone during the Bruins Cup bar crawl. There’s no way you’d outlast me.”</p>
<p>The first thought that floats through Patrick’s head is that he shouldn’t get wasted on Christmas Eve. His family wouldn’t appreciate him being hungover on Christmas Day and neither would Jonny. Then he remembers he’s not going to be seeing anyone on Christmas Day. Not his family, not his teammates, and there is no hockey scheduled for this week. There’s just Patrick and Tyler and their fifty-eight, no, fifty-two cans of Heineken.</p>
<p>Patrick can get as fucked up as he wants. </p>
<p>And he will.</p>
<p>“You’re on,” Patrick says.</p>
<p>They drink all the way through Elf, and past Miracle on 34th Street too, opening the Goldschläger at one point and finishing off an entire bottle of that as well. By ten o’clock Patrick’s so drunk it’s hard to sit up straight just to watch It’s a Wonderful Life in German, and Tyler’s way past passed out - belly down on the couch with his face half shoved into a throw pillow with drool creating a small puddle by his mouth, his shirt rucked up his back at a weird angle. He’s snoring loudly enough Patrick keeps getting distracted from trying to read the subtitles on the screen and it takes him at least five minutes to realize that the reason they don’t make sense is because they’re in French and not English.</p>
<p>Christ, he’s a moron.</p>
<p>Even more so when he checks the time on his phone and thinks about checking on his fantasy football team, but finds himself instead clicking through his contacts until he comes to Jonny’s phone number.</p>
<p>They haven’t talked in two months, not a skype call, not a phone call, not an email, or a text. Nothing. And it’s the longest they’ve gone without communicating, one way or the other, Patrick realizes, since before they were both drafted, and that’s including the summer Patrick went silent on Jonny and his amazing tropical shirtless pic texts.</p>
<p>What would it hurt really if Patrick were to just leave Jonny a short message now wishing him Merry Christmas? He’s probably busy at some party, or already in bed with a beautiful bombshell, the future wife type, and blowing her mind.</p>
<p>Patrick wonders if she’ll be taken apart piece by piece in the same way Jonny’s ruined him. That’s a stupid question, of course she will be. Or he. Or whoever the lucky person is that Jonny chooses.</p>
<p>He shouldn’t call.</p>
<p>It’s a bad idea.</p>
<p>Horrible.</p>
<p>The ringing tone of Patrick’s phone trying to connect the call is already filtering through the air by the time Patrick brings his phone to his ear.</p>
<p>It rings once, twice, three times, and right as Patrick thinks it’s going to go to voicemail Patrick hears the call pick up, the sound of rustling sheets on the other side, and a huffed-out familiar breath.</p>
<p>Then a gravely and muffled, “Kaner?”</p>
<p>Patrick forgets to speak for a moment at the sound of Jonny’s sleepy deep voice touching his ears. He wants to dive into that sound and settle there, melt into it and never leave. Instantly he’s got the saddest boner of his entire life.</p>
<p>“Hello?” Jonny says.</p>
<p>Patrick grips his phone harder and blinks his eyes open wide. “Hi,” he says too loud.  “Yeah. It’s me.”</p>
<p>“It’s six in the fucking morning. You know that right?” he murmurs, grouchy.</p>
<p>“I - shit. No, I forgot about the, um, the time thingy. The zone.”</p>
<p>“Time zones?”</p>
<p>“Yes! That’s it.”</p>
<p>There’s a quiet beat and then more sheets rustling. “Have you been drinking?”</p>
<p>Shit. Patrick didn’t want that to be obvious, but he probably should’ve known better. Jonny has always been able to pick up on the little things like that about everyone. He’s like Patrick’s mom in that way, eyes in the back of his head.</p>
<p>“Just a, um, just a lil,” Patrick says, now that it’s apparent. “Not much. I swear. Only a lil-little bit.”</p>
<p>A long sigh. “What do you want?”</p>
<p>It’s not that Patrick doesn’t deserve it. He knows he does. He left and he hurt Jonny and now he has to deal with the fall out. The thing is, he wasn’t expecting for it to wound him like this, past his skin and sinew and muscle, to the bone, the marrow, to the very cells that hold him together.</p>
<p>Nothing in his life has stung more than this and yet Patrick can’t let go.</p>
<p>He can’t.</p>
<p>“To talk,” he whispers, too afraid to speak louder and possibly push Jonny further away.</p>
<p>“About?”</p>
<p>“Anything. Anything you wanna talk about, Jonny.”</p>
<p>There’s a swift inhale and a slow, shaky exhale on the other end of the line. Patrick wishes so badly he could see Jonny that he feels dizzy with it, watching the room spin around him and forcing his eyes shut so he can listen. </p>
<p>“I don’t want to talk. It’s six in the morning. I want to sleep,” Jonny says, low.</p>
<p>“Please,” Patrick pleads.</p>
<p>“Please what?”</p>
<p>“Talk to me. I - I miss you.”</p>
<p>The line goes silent for a minute, then another two, long enough Patrick thinks Jonny hung up on him.</p>
<p>“Are you fucking serious?” Jonny says finally. His voice has gone raspy, like he’s got a frog in his throat, or a pound of rocks.</p>
<p>“I…”</p>
<p>He wants to say the right thing but he doesn’t know what the right thing is, and short of vomiting his every feeling and thought at Jonny right here, right now, Patrick feels lost as to what to do, how to make this better. And he wants to make it better so badly his heart is about to hammer its way through his ribcage and burst out of his chest.</p>
<p>“Patrick, I was here the whole time,” Jonny mutters. “I’ve been here the whole goddamn time. From the beginning. Waiting for you. I tried to make plans with you. I told you before you took off I wanted you and you still left. What is there to say?” With each word he spits, Patrick can hear him getting worked up, can sense the anger in his tone. But when he pauses and takes a breath only to speak again, something in his voice has shifted into cool indifference. “How’s Switzerland?”</p>
<p>Patrick wants to ask what changed. If he’s still waiting for Patrick and if he will wait until Patrick’s home. It’s a pointless question Patrick already knows the answer to. There isn’t any going back to what they had before. Patrick isn’t worth - </p>
<p>“It’s okay,” he says, like a coward.</p>
<p>Jonny exhales. He sounds so tired. “Fantastic. I’m going back to sleep.”</p>
<p>“Jonny?”</p>
<p>“What?”</p>
<p>“I’m really sorry. I -”</p>
<p>“Yeah, me too,” Jonny says and then he hangs up.</p>
<p>For minutes afterwards, Patrick sits in place with the phone still pressed up against his ear, hand gripping it so tight he doesn’t realize his hand is starting to ache until Tyler shifts on the couch and startles him into dropping his arm.</p>
<p>“You okay, PK?” Tyler asks, his face shifting from sleepy to concerned.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Patrick says.</p>
<p>“You sure? You don’t look okay.”</p>
<p>“What makes you say that?” Patrick asks numbly. He stares at the TV; the scene where George Bailey is running through the streets of Bedford Falls just having realized he’s alive and full of gratitude for everything he has is playing.</p>
<p>“Well,” Tyler says, sitting up. “You’re crying, for one.”</p>
<p>Patrick touches fingers up to his cheeks and feels it come away wet. He hadn’t even noticed.</p>
<p>“And for another, you seem sad. Want me to suck your dick?”</p>
<p>Startled into a laugh, Patrick chokes on a watery cough and looks over to see Tyler half-grinning at him, his eyes still soft.</p>
<p>“Um no,” Patrick shakes his head. “Thank you.”</p>
<p>“Wanna suck my dick?” Tyler offers. His grin turns wicked, his lips curving up in that boyish way that makes him seem both more and less innocent than he really is at the exact same time.</p>
<p>Patrick rolls his eyes, feeling a few more errant tears slip down his face. He scrubs a hand over his cheeks and chin, blowing out a breath. “No.”</p>
<p>“Cool,” Tyler shrugs. “Just checking. If you change your mind though, let me know.”</p>
<p>“I’m in love with Jonny,” Patrick blurts out. </p>
<p>Fuck. That’s the first time he’s said it out loud. He can’t take it back now. And the crazy part is he doesn’t want to take it back. Now that he’s said it he wants to scream it, he wants everyone to know. Even if Jonny doesn’t feel the same Patrick wants him to know.</p>
<p>“Obviously,” Tyler says, rolling his eyes this time. “But are you together?”</p>
<p>“No. Not right now. It’s complicated.”</p>
<p>Tyler hums like he’s considering. “Maybe he wants his dick sucked. Should I offer?”</p>
<p>“I’ll kill you,” Patrick says flatly, looking right into Tyler’s eyes without any expression.</p>
<p>There’s a quiet pause where neither of them speak, starting blankly at each other and then Tyler violently shudders, breaking out into howling laughs.</p>
<p>“I’m fucking joking, you tiny psycho, oh my God!”</p>
<p>He hops up off the couch and goes to Patrick, yanking him up from his chair and pulling him into a rough bear hug. “I don’t know much about love, man. But I heard you on the phone and -</p>
<p>“Of course you did,” Patrick groans against Tyler’s shoulder.</p>
<p>Arms tighten around him further and Patrick feels Tyler’s cheek press to the side of his head. “I heard you on the phone and I can tell you’re gone about him. Go home and make it uncomplicated. If for no one else than yourself. Okay?”</p>
<p>“Says the guy that just offered to suck my dick,” Patrick murmurs.</p>
<p>“Hey, I’m a good time! But I probably can’t offer you what Toews can, and you deserve to have what makes you happy.”</p>
<p>He claps Patrick on the back twice and lets him go, standing back as Patrick exhales and says awkwardly, “Uh, thanks, man.”</p>
<p>“No problem.”</p>
<p>“But what about you?” Patrick asks, lacking anything better to say.</p>
<p>“What about me?”</p>
<p>“What makes you happy?”</p>
<p>Tyler falls back on the couch, arms and legs spread out, casual. He runs a hand through his messy hair. “Imagining sucking Toews' big dick,” he says gleefully.</p>
<p>Patrick picks up one of the nearest throw pillows covered in a blue snowflake pattern and whacks Tyler’s joyful face with it, unable to stop the smile creeping across his own mouth in return.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>EHC Biel has a week of games leading up to New Year’s Eve, three of which they lose. On New Year’s Day Tyler and Patrick have a traditional raclette and fondue Swiss dinner with Martin’s family, drinking too much wine, and going to watch the fireworks afterwards. </p>
<p>Four days later Patrick’s in his room getting ready for practice when Tyler busts through the door and says, “The lockout’s over, bitch! It’s time to go home.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Chapter 15</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2013</b>
</p>
<p>Walking down to baggage claim at O’Hare Airport, Patrick remembers his dream of Jonny waiting for him and has to steel himself when he looks around and doesn’t see any Jonny in sight. It’s not that he’s disappointed to see Mom, Dad, and his sisters waiting with gigantic smiles on their faces and open arms; he’s not. He missed them so much he feels choked up with it when they all convene on him in a big bear hug, surrounding him at once and asking him a million questions, most of which come from Jackie.</p>
<p>He’s not sad to see his family - never could be - but it feels incomplete all the same, like a huge part is just gone, missing.</p>
<p>His parents take him to his place to drop off his luggage and let him nap for a few hours after a long flight, and when he wakes, they go out for a big family meal at Chicago Cut like old times. Patrick spends most of the night fielding Switzerland questions from his sisters and hockey questions from Dad, as Mom just watches him and smiles, drinking him in like she hasn’t seen him in ten years. </p>
<p>“What kind of foods did you try?” Jess asks.</p>
<p>“What was the coolest place you visited?” Jackie asks.</p>
<p>“What was rooming with Tyler Seguin like?” Erica asks. “He’s cute.”</p>
<p>Patrick rolls his eyes at her, “Not a chance. Don’t even start.”</p>
<p>Erica sticks her tongue out at him in return and Patrick responds to the many other assorted questions, talking with Dad for a while about the smaller Europeans rinks and how he thinks it ultimately helped him learn to hone his puck handling and utilize it to move around other players quicker. Dad asks another twenty questions before Mom finally, gently tells him that’s enough and they head back to Patrick’s condo. </p>
<p>Even with the nap earlier, he’s already flagging the second they put a movie on TV to watch, falling in and out of sleep as it plays until at one point he opens his eyes to the credits rolling and finds the only people left in the room are Erica and him. </p>
<p>“I told Mom I’d get you to bed. You ready?” she asks.</p>
<p>Stretching his arms over his head and letting out a jaw-cracking yawn, Patrick says, “Gimme five minutes, I’m too comfortable to move just yet.”</p>
<p>She nods. “Okay.”</p>
<p>The room is dark around them, the only light coming from the soft glow of the TV as instrumental music plays, the volume on low. It’s nice to be back in his own home, in his own country, with his own people. Patrick really never stopped being homesick the entire time he was in Switzerland, but he realizes now there will be things he’ll miss, like Tyler’s early morning coffee, the random techno songs that were played at the EHC Biel arena, his favorite apricot cake Martin’s wife would make weekly for the players, and the heated bathroom floors.</p>
<p>He won’t miss the snow, but then he didn’t miss Chicago's snow, either.</p>
<p>And there’s more to be thankful for now that he’s returned, all of the things he’s taken for granted, his friends, his family, hockey.</p>
<p>Jonny.</p>
<p>Patrick wonders if Jonny knows he’s back, and if Jonny does know, whether he cares. Going by their last phone call, the answer is probably no. Still, Patrick aches to see him, to hear his laugh and watch his face shift into that devastating smile he unleashes on unsuspecting victims at will. It’s too much and too late at night for Patrick to be thinking about it right now, with Erica in the room with him.</p>
<p>“How’s life been?” Patrick asks, realizing shamefully he hasn’t had the opportunity to ask her what she’s been up to lately, or for a while - not since their last fight over the summer.</p>
<p>They spent most of dinner talking about Patrick and Patrick’s time in Switzerland, and only a little bit of time about his sisters’ or parents’ lives in the months he was away. Has it always been like this? And did he never notice it before?</p>
<p>“Same shit, different day.” She shrugs. “I hate my job, but it’s a job. I met a guy.”</p>
<p>“What happened with Cody?”</p>
<p>“Found out he was sleeping around with this girl Bekah in one of his law school classes. So that ended months ago.”</p>
<p>“Where does he live?” Patrick asks. “I know some people who can kick his ass.”</p>
<p>Erica laughs, waving him off. “The funny part is I know you aren’t joking.”</p>
<p>Patrick looks at her flatly. “I’m not. Where does this little fucker live?”</p>
<p>“<i>Anyway</i>,” Erica pointedly goes on. “I met this guy at work named, don’t laugh, <i>Brogan</i>.”</p>
<p>Patrick laughs. “<i>Bro-gun</i>.”</p>
<p>A hand shoots up, Erica’s middle finger rising as she continues. “He likes fishing, pretty much any animal you can name, sci-fi comedies, and competitive speed skating.”</p>
<p>“Speed skating,” he murmurs, confused. </p>
<p>At Patrick’s expression, she states, “His cousin is Apolo Ohno.”</p>
<p>“No shit?”</p>
<p>“I know! When I told him my brother was at the Winter Olympics in 2010, we had a good laugh about that.”</p>
<p>“So you like this guy?” Patrick asks, seeing the quiet smile bloom over Erica’s face. “It’s getting serious?”</p>
<p>“We’ve been out a few times,” Erica says, biting at her bottom lip. “He’s really sweet and thoughtful. I’m thinking of bringing him home to meet Mom and Dad.”</p>
<p>“You sure he’s ready for that yet?” </p>
<p>“No.” Erica huffs out a laugh. “But I figure if he can’t handle the heat this early on, that saves me from getting invested, so.”</p>
<p>“Tell him if he doesn’t treat you right, I’ll beat him up,” Patrick says.</p>
<p>In return Erica gives him an unimpressed grimace.</p>
<p>“Okay, okay, fine. Tell him Seabs and Duncs will beat him up.”</p>
<p>“Not Jonny?” Erica asks, and he knows this is her attempt to maybe finally get an answer from last summer, or maybe open up the conversation to make amends. Patrick could shut her down and move on, they’d both let it go. It’d be fine.</p>
<p>Except now that Patrick’s talked about it all with Tyler, he wants to talk about it more. He wants to talk about it with Erica, someone who knows him almost better than anyone else. He needs to know what she thinks and if she’ll be okay with it, because he can’t keep wondering and letting it eat at him like this.</p>
<p>Sitting up, Patrick rests his elbows on his knees and folds his hands together. There are things he wants to say and he knows if he overthinks them it’ll be like the conversation with Jonny all over again. So he steels himself and blurts out, “I need to tell you something.”</p>
<p>Erica nods like she maybe knew this was coming. “I’m listening.”</p>
<p>“Last summer, you asked me... about Jonny.” He looks up and sees Erica’s watching him closely, intently, her expression almost carefully neutral. “And I couldn’t answer back then. But I wanted to tell you I’m sorry for that. For being an asshole, and for not being honest. I just...I don’t know. I couldn’t. Yet. But, yes. I was with Jonny. I... <i>want</i> to be Jonny.”</p>
<p>He can’t quite make himself lift his head and meet Erica’s eyes, his heart thumping rapidly inside of his ears. The carpet under his feet is soft and white and Patrick curls his socked toes around it, trying to hold onto something tangible as he waits for a possibly world-crushing response.</p>
<p>Erica lets out what sounds like a cautious breath and then she says, “You know I don’t care, right?”</p>
<p>“You don’t?” Patrick says, because the truth is, he wasn’t sure. He’d hoped, but no, he didn’t know. And maybe that’s not fair to Erica, who is more like a twin to him than a sister, who’s been there for what feels like every important moment of Patrick’s life since he was born, and who has never not supported him in anything, except, perhaps that one time when he was nine and she was eight and he wanted to jump from their eight-foot high backyard tree house onto a pillow and she had tattled to Mom on him, afraid he was going to break his neck and die.</p>
<p>She probably saved the beginning of his hockey career, now that he thinks about it.</p>
<p>Maybe he should’ve asked for her advice more often since she’s obviously the more sensible of the two of them.</p>
<p>“I was just shocked at first. You’d never said anything about guys before, not even once,” she states. “And I know we don’t see each other as much these days, but I thought you knew you could tell me whatever.” </p>
<p>“People say that but…” Patrick finally raises his head.</p>
<p>“I’m not people.” Erica frowns. “Is there anything I could say to you that would make you hate me?”</p>
<p>“You’re a Red Wings fan?” </p>
<p>She rolls her eyes. “Okay, smartass.”</p>
<p>“No,” Patrick shakes his head. “You can tell me anything.”</p>
<p>“And so can you. I’ll be here no matter what.”</p>
<p>He sees the concern on his sister’s face and turns to stare out at the dark Chicago cityscape beyond his windows, shoring himself up. “I think I ruined things with Jon.”</p>
<p>“What? How?” Erica asks. “You’re probably being dramatic.”</p>
<p>“Because he wanted me to stay instead of going to Europe to play, and I went anyway. Because he said he wanted more and I left. And now we aren’t really talking.”</p>
<p>“Well that’s not <i>great</i>, but it could be worse. Do you want my advice?” she says. “Of course you do.”</p>
<p>Patrick snorts.</p>
<p>“You should try talking to him. I bet he’d be more open to it than you think.”</p>
<p>“Oh yeah?” he says, skeptically.</p>
<p>“Yeah,” she says.</p>
<p>“I’m not so sure.”</p>
<p>There’s a brief pause where Erica rubs a hand through her hair and resituates herself in her seat, like she’s taking the time to mull it over. She tugs at her socks, these fuzzy brown and beige wool things that all the girls are wearing under their boots these days. Each of his sisters and even his mom have a pair and Patrick doesn’t really see the appeal, but they look comfy at least.</p>
<p>“I mean, I could be off-base but the way Jonny looks at you? I used to think it was an admiration thing. So many people look at you like you’ve hung the fucking moon. They kind of all blend together after a while. But, I don’t know. I’ve had time to relive some memories since last summer, look at a few things in a new light.”</p>
<p>Patrick feels like there’s a baseball, no, a football shoved up into his throat. “And?”</p>
<p>Erica tugs at the heel of her sock again until it’s just in the right place. Then she looks at Patrick, her mouth curving into a lopsided tilt, sweetening her whole face. “And it’s not admiration. Or, well, it’s not only admiration. It’s - I think it’s a lot more. Just a gut feeling.”</p>
<p>Patrick swallows down all of the longing and fear wanting to burst out of him and hopes with everything he has that she’s right.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>The following morning, Patrick receives a call about when Blackhawks training camp will begin and when to be ready to come in. He gets so excited about the news he skips going out to breakfast with his family in favor of meeting up with Sharpy at Johnny’s Ice House West for a skate and a workout. </p>
<p>“How were the Swiss?” Sharpy asks. “Lots of cute, hot blonde chicks?”</p>
<p>He’s smirking at Patrick in that way where he thinks he’s a lot funnier than he really is, but he's actually just fucking lame.</p>
<p>Patrick digs up some snow with the blade of his stick and slaps it in Sharpy’s direction, pleased when a glob of it hits Sharpy right on the neck and drips down his shirt until he squirms.</p>
<p>“No hot chicks for me,” Patrick tells him.</p>
<p>“No hot chicks for Tazer, either,” Sharpy declares.</p>
<p>The room feels immediately like all of the air has been sucked out. Patrick shoves his stick into the groove he’s made in the ice, back and forth, back and forth.</p>
<p>“Oh?”</p>
<p>“Not even one little hot chick.” Sharpy sighs. “The two of you are pathetic. If I was in Switzerland, I would’ve landed at least five. Possibly ten. The blondes love me, you know?”</p>
<p>“I’m telling Abby you said that.” Patrick skates to the bench. “I’m gonna call her right now.” </p>
<p>“Fuck off! I’m just joking.” Sharpy pretends to be unbothered.</p>
<p>The closer Patrick gets to his phone he watches Sharpy’s expression change into sheer terror as he scrolls through his contacts, taps on the number, and then brings it up to his ear. </p>
<p>“Hey Abby!”</p>
<p>Sharpy squawks, rushing over to Patrick and trying to get the phone away. “Please tell her I’m joking,” he whispers.</p>
<p>And Patrick laughs in his face as Abby tells him Maddie wants to say hello. He listens to baby babble for a good few minutes, while Sharpy goes back to practicing his shooting. Once Abby takes the phone back, she asks Patrick to come over to a little dinner get-together she and Sharpy are holding at the end of the week with Seabs, Dayna, Duncs, and Kelly Rae. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask if anyone else is coming, but Abby doesn’t list another person and Patrick agrees to go, if only to get more important chat time in with Maddie.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>After practice is over, Dad picks him up and immediately starts talking about lunch, which usually means Mom has had him on a diet the last few months and he’s at the end of his rope with drinking healthy shakes and eating lean chicken salads every meal.</p>
<p>It’s his dad’s version of missing those precious summer carbs, and Patrick can fully relate.</p>
<p>“I was thinking about Italian but your mom wants something a little healthier so we were thinking sushi since you probably haven’t had that in a while?”</p>
<p>Patrick tries to hide his snicker at the derisive way Dad says <i>healthier</i>.</p>
<p>“Sounds good.”</p>
<p>“How’d skating go with Sharp? Did you practice your edges?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, of course.” Patrick nods. “I think some of the other guys that I’ve talked to that haven’t played in a while feel a little rusty, but I feel like I’m ready to go. Don’t really even need camp to be honest.”</p>
<p>There’s a small traffic jam ahead of them and Dad pulls in behind a white Jeep Wrangler with Blackhawks license plates. It makes Patrick grin and think, yeah, he really is home. He keeps forgetting and remembering in fits and spurts, giddy each time he realizes hockey is close and normal isn’t far off.</p>
<p>“Well, training camp was always more for the coaches more than you guys anyway. If you aren’t ready to go by the week or two before game time, you probably just aren’t ready,” Dad says.</p>
<p>“Yeah, for sure,” Patrick agrees. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he fishes it out, assuming it’s Sharpy leaving him a smartass message about the party or something. Instead it’s Seabs welcoming him home with a classic, <i>So did you learn to yodel while you were gone?</i></p>
<p>“The girls are flying out tomorrow afternoon, I don’t know if they told you,” Dad explains, distracting Patrick from typing back a response like <i>Yodel-eh-hee-fuck-u, dude.</i> “They have to get back to work and school, but your mom and I thought we’d hang out another couple of days, make sure you get settled in. And I guess because we missed you too.”</p>
<p>“Just a little bit?” Patrick asks, the corners of his lips stretching wide.</p>
<p>“Just a little. Like this much,” he says, holding up his thumb and pointer finger and squishing them together until there’s barely a millimeter of space between them.</p>
<p>Patrick laughs at his dad’s teasing expression and thinks about how much he wants to hold onto this moment. It’s so easy and light, and why can’t it always be this way? It could be if he left it, if he let it. But in a few days, his dad will return to Buffalo and things will stay unchanged, like they’ve always been, if he doesn’t speak up now. Patrick’s not the same as he was before leaving Chicago, and he can pretend like he is, to keep it comfortable for everyone else, but he’s so tired. Tired of holding it all inside of himself, tired of worrying about what will happen if it comes out, tired of not being honest with himself or the people he loves.</p>
<p>Today is a new day.</p>
<p>And today he can take that first step if he opens his mouth and uses his words, if he’s strong enough to try.</p>
<p>“Hey, Dad?” he says and he can already hear the tremble in his own voice.</p>
<p>The light turns green and they inch forward, but there are so many cars ahead of them, they don’t make more than ten feet of headway before it turns red again. Dad puts the car in park, knowing it’ll be another five minutes until they move again. “Yeah? What’s up, Buzz?”</p>
<p>He glances over at Patrick, eyes questioning, and expression even, relaxed. In the next minute, it might be angry, or even worse, disappointed.</p>
<p>In the next minute, he might be devastated and there’s no way to know, and there’s no turning back, not now.</p>
<p>Patrick takes a deep breath and grips at the door handle for something to grasp onto.</p>
<p>“I need to tell you something.”</p>
<p>Dad’s brows furrow. “Everything okay?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I mean. Probably? I guess it depends on how you feel about me after I tell you,” Patrick says. His mouth is so dry, and his throat clicks when he tries to swallow. </p>
<p>“That sounds concerning,” Dad says, frowning. “Are you in trouble?”</p>
<p>“No! No, it’s nothing like that. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry. It’s just. I, um.” He takes another deep breath and then another, and another, until his breaths are coming quicker now, and he can hear the way he sounds like he’s panting, the way he’s starting to lose control. Oh fuck. <i>Fuck.</i></p>
<p>“Son? You alright?”</p>
<p>There’s a hand on his shoulder and it squeezes just a little, shaking him, trying to get his attention. Patrick anchors himself to that touch, pressing his feet against the footwell of the car, and tries to will his pulse to slow down.</p>
<p>“I just. I don’t want you to hate me,” he says, and blinks the blurriness from his eyes. </p>
<p>He can’t fucking cry right now. Not right now. Please.</p>
<p>“What? Buzz?” Dad doesn’t look concerned so much as afraid, turning to take Patrick all the way in. He grips at Patrick’s shoulder more firmly. “Hey, kid, look at me. I don’t know what’s going on but there’s nothing you could say that would make me hate you. You’re my child, my first born, that is a tie that can never be broken, you hear me?”</p>
<p>Patrick nods, unable to speak.</p>
<p>“Do you?” Dad asks.</p>
<p>“Yes, sir,” he forces out, biting down on the inside of his cheek. “I do.”</p>
<p>Dad squints at him like he’s not quite convinced, but he says, “Good. Now tell me what’s going on.”</p>
<p>Patrick looks out through the windshield and tries to gather whatever small amount of bravery rests within him, pull it forward and shape it, then reshape it, until it forms into an armor that’s bulletproof enough to carry him through what he’s about to say. All his dumb mind keeps imagining are the long haired men who work at Medieval Times in Schaumburg, riding around shiny horses and holding fake swords.</p>
<p>Everything there is for show, and maybe his armor is too, but he needs it to hold up just long enough for him to get through this. God, <i>please</i>.</p>
<p>“I have feelings for Jonny,” he says, low. “And I don’t know where it’s going or if it’s going to work out. I don’t have a lot of answers for you right now because I’m still figuring out stuff myself.” He pulls his hands into his lap and begins fidgeting with them, pulling at his fingers, cracking his knuckles, anything anything <i>anything</i>. “But I want to be with him, and if he’ll have me I am going to be with him. And I need you to know that. Because I don’t want to hide it from you.”</p>
<p>It’s quiet once he’s finished and Patrick doesn’t want to look at him, bracing for the worst, but he has to look because the not knowing is tearing him apart from the inside out.</p>
<p>What he sees isn’t anything like he expected. There isn’t outrage, or fear, or even resentment. There’s only confusion.</p>
<p>“How long has this been going on?”</p>
<p>As Patrick’s about to answer, a horn blares from behind them and they both notice traffic is moving again. They finally make it through the light this time and spend the rest of the ride silent until they get to the parking garage of Patrick’s building where he says, “For a few years.”</p>
<p>Dad parks in one of the guest spots and turns the car off and they both just sit for the longest time, staring out at a gray brick wall.</p>
<p>“Why didn’t you feel like you could tell me?” Dad asks, and the question startles Patrick out of his daze until he turns and their eyes meet. </p>
<p>“I don’t know.” He grips his fingers so tightly it hurts. “I didn’t really want to think about it at first. Or acknowledge it. And then I was just scared.” There’s this moment where he physically can’t keep his eyes on his father’s and he can’t let himself turn away, and there’s nowhere else to go, nowhere else to escape. All that’s left for him is to stare over his father’s shoulder and out into nothing as he stumbles over his words. “I know - I know I’m not supposed to want this, be like this...I know it’s wrong. That I’m wrong.”</p>
<p>He can feel himself curling inward even as he tries to fight it, tries to be brave and sit tall. His arms wrap around his middle of their own volition, his torso bending forward as his insides feel full of thorns.</p>
<p>One excruciating minute passes, and then two, and three, and by the fourth, Patrick hears the distant sound of Dad clearing his throat.</p>
<p>“Patrick, you’re a good boy,” he says quietly. “You’ve made some choices in the past I haven’t agreed with, things that have gotten you into trouble. You paid the consequences for that. This...who you care for, that’s up to you, not me. And if Toews makes you happy, then that’s good. I want you to be happy.”</p>
<p>It doesn’t register at first, everything his dad said. He has to replay it in his head, deconstruct it, and try to fit it back together to make sure all of the pieces go in the correct spots. It’s not real. But it is.</p>
<p>It is.</p>
<p>Patrick takes a shuddery breath. “Yeah?”</p>
<p>“Can’t be wrong if it makes my kid smile like that,” Dad replies, his hand reaching out to squeeze Patrick’s shoulder again.</p>
<p>Bringing up shaking fingers to his own mouth, Patrick touches his lips. He didn’t realize the edges had curved upward. It’s too overwhelming. Twice he tries to push words out that he’s not even fully formed yet.</p>
<p>Everything is changing so quickly now.</p>
<p>“Dad,” Patrick says around a sob and is pulled into a hug, awkward as it is, with the console between them. </p>
<p>A kiss is pressed to the top of his head. “It’s okay, Buzz.”</p>
<p>There’s so much Patrick wants to say but he can’t create a coherent thought to save his life. And maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe Dad already knows, has always known.</p>
<p>“Okay,” he mumbles against the fabric of his dad’s winter coat rubbing over his wet cheek.</p>
<p>Maybe that’s enough.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>On Friday, after Patrick’s sent his parents back off to Buffalo, he puts on a nice pair of black jeans and a gray henley, checks over his hair twice, then drives to Sharpy’s house. There’s several cars parked on the street that Patrick recognizes and a few he doesn’t, unsure if they belong to the neighbors or friends of Sharpy Patrick hasn’t met.</p>
<p>Once inside he greets Abby with a kiss to the cheek and Sharpy with a not-so-quick hug that’s followed by a back slap from Duncs and a noogie from Seabs. Dayna, heavily pregnant, tells Patrick she’s having a girl, and shows him the sonogram pictures and what names she and Seabs have picked out.</p>
<p>The food spread Abby has laid out in the dining room is predictably healthy in preparation for training camp on Monday, but it’s no less delicious looking. There’s a make your own salad station and a taco bar with steak, chicken, black beans, pinto beans, rice, and every pepper available under the sun. There’s also spring rolls, mini sub sandwiches, and veggie plates. Enough to feed a small army.</p>
<p>Patrick bypasses all of it in search of where the liquor is set up by the bar behind the dining table. He doesn’t want to get wasted, but he needs something, just a beer or a couple of shots to get through this night without staring longingly at the front door the whole time.</p>
<p>Already he can feel himself wanting to ask if Jonny’s coming, and at what time. The question is on the tip of his tongue and kicking at the back of his teeth to get through. He swallows down the urge and goes for the Grey Goose instead, uncapping the bottle and glancing around for a cup.</p>
<p>A cup, a cup, where the fuck are the cups that everyone else in the room is carrying around? Maybe the kitchen. Yes.</p>
<p>Patrick takes the vodka with him, recapping it and stuffing it under his arm as he navigates around a few people, walking to the entrance of Sharpy’s kitchen and halting when he bumps into a wall of a human that’s distinctly Jonny-shaped.</p>
<p>“Sorry. My bad,” Patrick says, eyes flicking up and catching on Jonny’s.</p>
<p>There’s less than an inch of space between them, but as Patrick watches Jonny's face shift from neutral to shocked back to carefully casual in a flash, it feels more like a canyon, an abyss. </p>
<p>He doesn’t move, doesn’t want to, can’t. And for the longest beat they stay locked in place, staring at each other in the doorway of Sharpy’s kitchen while there’s chatter and laughter moving around them, the faint beat of a song Patrick doesn’t recognize, footsteps over hardwood floors, heels clicking, and the sound of a television.</p>
<p>It’s all static. It’s invisible.</p>
<p>The smell of Jonny’s woodsy cologne hits Patrick in the gut, reminding him of endless nights wrapped up in Jonny, of their sweat slicked skin gliding together, of Jonny’s sheets beneath Patrick’s body as Jonny moves above him. It’s a lot like what Patrick imagines having someone stab you in the chest and drag the knife all the way down your torso must feel like, but then Jonny moves away and he thinks, no, this is what being drawn and quartered must be like: devastating.</p>
<p>“Kaner,” Jonny says flatly. “Hey.”</p>
<p>Patrick watches the way Jonny’s jaw tightens, his arms going stiff by his sides. He looks impenetrable, like he’s made of steel and boulders a hundred feet high. There’s nothing Patrick wants more than to reach out to him and to run away, his head and his heart a mix of conflicting signals he doesn’t know what the fuck to do with.</p>
<p>In the end all he can do, all his frightened mind will allow him to do, is smile briefly, and say, “Hi, Jonny.”</p>
<p>Dark eyes flicker to him and Patrick unconsciously looks away. When he tries to force himself to meet Jonny’s gaze head on, he finds that this time it’s Jonny who is staring off in another direction.</p>
<p>“Did you just get back?” Jonny asks, his voice dry and void of emotion. He might as well be asking Patrick about the weather for as much enthusiasm as he’s currently displaying.</p>
<p>“On Monday, yeah,” Patrick says.</p>
<p>Behind them there’s a commotion by the front door, but Patrick’s too drawn to watching Jonny’s face - now that Jonny isn’t focused on him - searching for any flicker of a feeling to flitter over Jonny’s eyes or the tilt of his mouth. </p>
<p>Any small twitch or lifted brow or nose scrunch.</p>
<p>Anything.</p>
<p>There’s nothing.</p>
<p>“Cool.” Jonny nods. </p>
<p>The sound of the crowd talking in the living room is slowly growing louder and louder with the new arrival, laughter flowing like waves throughout the air. Patrick really needs everyone to shut the hell up so he can concentrate on talking to Jonny. Even if Jonny isn’t currently talking to him so much as talking at him, his foot almost entirely out the door of their conversation.</p>
<p>Patrick’s losing him with each second that ticks by, he can see it - feel it in his gut. If only he could figure out the right thing to say to fix all of it. There has to be some combination of words - ‘I’m sorry,’ and ‘I fucked up,’ and ‘I know I’m an idiot who ran away because I was scared, but please forgive me, I can’t do this without you, you ruined me for anyone else’ - he can say, something at least to get Jonny to look at him like he matters again.</p>
<p>
  <i>Please…</i>
</p>
<p>There’s a high-pitched whistle and then clapping. Jonny’s eyes snap to the crowd again, over Patrick’s head.</p>
<p>“Jonny.”</p>
<p>Patrick's voice is drowned out by all of the other voices in the room.</p>
<p>“Crow dawg!” Jonny hollers, tilting his chin up, his expression transforming as he grins. “What’s up!”</p>
<p>From across the room, Patrick hears Crow shout, “We’re back, fuckers!”</p>
<p>“Fuck yeah we are!” Duncs yells and then everyone is whooping and cheering and laughing. </p>
<p>And the moment is gone.</p>
<p>“Jon?” Patrick tries one last time, knowing his time with Jonny has already slipped like ashes through his hands.</p>
<p>“I’m gonna go catch up with him,” Jonny says, like he didn’t hear what Patrick said, like he didn’t want to. He sidesteps around Patrick, their arms brushing for half a second of warmth and connection before it too is gone. “Talk to you later, Kaner.”</p>
<p>“Yeah,” Patrick murmurs, finally treading into the kitchen. “Sure.”</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>Training camp passes mostly in a blur of fitness tests and scrimmages. As soon as Patrick blinks, they’re already flying into Los Angeles for their first game of the year. A Greyhound bus takes them to the hotel to drop off their bags and nap before the game at seven.</p>
<p>The entire plane ride, Patrick couldn’t see Jonny from where he was sitting on the other side of the plane next to Seabs, but Jonny looked sleepy and rumpled as he got onto the bus, sitting up near the front by himself. They’ve barely talked since Patrick’s return and he’s not surprised, not really. He knew Jonny was going to be professional on the ice, and he is - all business and attention laser-focused as soon as his skates are on. Still, it hurts the way he’s cut off from a part of Jonny he’s always had access to. And maybe he took it for granted when he had it, assuming Jonny would always be there, would always want Patrick around. He knows his foolish heart didn’t fully appreciate what he had. He knows.</p>
<p>He knows it all too fucking well now.</p>
<p>Every time Jonny doesn’t skate up beside him and bump their shoulders together, every time he doesn’t look at Patrick across the locker room and wink at him, every time he doesn’t whisper something to Patrick in passing in a hallway with his lit-up eyes and his embarrassingly sexy smile, every time he doesn’t look at Patrick, but past him, it hurts.</p>
<p><i>Just look at me</i>, Patrick wants to scream. <i>I’m right here</i>.</p>
<p>The bus pulls to a stop in front of the Four Seasons and the guys start to unload, shuffling off and into the lobby to retrieve their room assignments.</p>
<p>Sharpy stops Patrick to bitch for ten minutes about how Duncs wouldn’t shut up the entire plane ride, going on and on even while they were taking the bus to the hotel, telling Sharpy in bloody detail every scrap of information he’d learned from the latest Forensic Files episode he’d watched on TV the day before. Patrick’s half-listening when a keycard for his room is placed in his hand. There’s a few more indignant parting words from Sharpy about his annoyance until he departs in the opposite direction of Patrick and then it hits that, per the new CBA rules established during the lockout, this is the first time in Patrick’s hockey career he’s going to have a space to himself on the road.</p>
<p>Immediately as he gets off the elevator he begins to wonder where Jonny’s room is and if it’s on the same floor as Patirck’s when someone steps up beside Patrick, briefly brushing their arms together.</p>
<p>It’s Jonny, and he turns his head slightly to the side when he sees Patrick, his long stride already pulling him ahead of Patrick as they walk down the hall together.</p>
<p>“Hey, Kaner,” Jonny says, casual, almost indifferent.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Patrick says. <i>How are you doing?</i> he wants to say. <i>Do you hate me?</i> he wants to ask. </p>
<p><i>I miss you all the time</i>, he thinks.</p>
<p>“Good thing we don’t have to room together anymore, eh?” Jonny says, his tone light and joking.</p>
<p>“Hah, yeah,” Patrick says, forcing out a weak laugh. </p>
<p>And then Jonny’s gone, ten steps ahead of Patrick and still out of reach.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>For how miserably Patrick’s personal life is currently going, everything on ice is the complete opposite. The Hawks win the first six games of the season with ease, the following three going into shootouts where they still pick up at least a point. In February they lose in another shootout to the Ducks, but it’s a blip in a sea of winning and winning and winning. Every night it feels as if the team is clicking on a higher level, the offense scoring goals when they need to, and the defense keeping their end tightened up and locked off to every opponent. </p>
<p>By the time March rolls around, each game is heightened, like they’re at the end of a series in the playoffs, excitement through the roof and the goals all highlight reel-worthy.</p>
<p>Patrick remembers this kind of energy during the 2010 Cup run, the adrenaline and joy, the rush of coming off the ice every night they won, feeling like he was on top of the fucking world, indestructible. </p>
<p>It would be a perfect stretch of moments if Patrick didn’t step into the locker room and instantly notice the way Jonny smiles and jokes around with everyone but him. He sees the way Jonny talks shit with Shawzy, the way he roughs around with Seabs, or gives advice to Saader. He’ll wrap his arm around Sharpy’s neck and mess with his hair, and he’ll sit on the plane next to Hammer and talk about random life stuff. It’s all so normal and familiar in a way that stings deep in Patrick’s gut until he wants to curl into himself and shut everything out.</p>
<p>But he can’t. He has to go on and accept the things he cannot change, have courage to change the things he can, and wisdom to know the blah blah blah.</p>
<p>Having Jonny so close to him but so far away sucks a big fat one. Even bigger than Jonny’s very impressively-sized dick. It’s pretty fucking awful in every conceivable and imaginable sense. And there’s nothing Patrick can do to change it. He can’t force Jonny to like him again or hold him.</p>
<p>He can’t even get Jonny to open up the hotel door when they have a shared room.</p>
<p>Asking Jonny to be friends again is probably out of the question.</p>
<p>Right…?</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>During the last week of March the team has an entire seven day homestand. This is usually about the time everyone, players and coaching staff included, would be getting in gear to go to the playoffs. A few call ups to Rockford would be made for the vets to hang back and rest up in preparation, and Patrick would be watching hours of game tape of the teams that the Hawks could potentially be matched up with in the first round.</p>
<p>He’s so used to the routine of it all that it hits him funny when he realizes that playoffs aren’t for almost another month.</p>
<p>Another month of regular season games, another month of playing like the house is on fire at the UC, another month of Jonny basically ignoring Patrick like he didn’t at one time kiss Patrick and call him baby in that slow, honeyed voice of his, like he didn’t hold Patrick at night and wake him up with licks all along his spine, like he hasn’t been so deep inside of Patrick he touched places Patrick <i>knows</i> no one else ever will.</p>
<p>“Kaner.”</p>
<p>It’s fucking maddening.</p>
<p>“Kanerrrrrr…”</p>
<p>He’s not sure how much longer he can’t take it without imploding.</p>
<p>“Kaner!”</p>
<p>Patrick snaps out of his thoughts and looks up to see Seabs hovering over him, half-out of his practice gear and dripping sweat, his five o’clock shadow thicker than Patrick’s fully grown beard.</p>
<p>“Huh?” Patrick says, still out of it. “What’s up?</p>
<p>“Duncs, Hammer, and some of the boys are going out for lunch. You in?”</p>
<p>“Where are we going?” he asks, not that it matters. If Jonny’s going, Patrick wants to be there, even if only to watch him having fun while interacting with other people.</p>
<p>Seabs shrugs and wipes at his wet brow with the back of his forearm. “Not sure. Some chi-chi burger place Tazer recommended.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, I’ll go. Just gotta shower first.”</p>
<p>“Same,” Seabs says and wanders off to presumably finish undressing.</p>
<p>Patrick rushes with getting his skates off and then the rest of his gear, washing himself so quickly he even beats Duncs out of the showers first. Then he waits around for directions from Sharpy and drives himself to the restaurant, making it through the door just behind Jonny. </p>
<p>Standing back by the entrance, he watches Jonny smile at the hostess and ask for a table for seven. The girl blushes, batting her long eyelashes at him, and tells him it’ll be a few minutes to get the area set up for them. The next customer through the door steps up to the hostess stand and Jonny shuffles backwards, until he’s out of the way of foot traffic. He pulls out his phone and begins scrolling through it, Patrick’s eyes never leaving him.</p>
<p>Jonny hasn’t noticed that Patrick’s here, just out of his periphery, and Patrick takes a minute to collect his thoughts and think about what he wants to say, how he wants to say it. He might be mouthing words silently to himself, practicing, but no one’s paying attention so it’s fine, it’s okay.</p>
<p>Behind him Patrick hears a door open and the squeaky squelch of sneakers on tile floor as people walk in.</p>
<p>“You get a table?” Sharpy asks.</p>
<p>And Patrick’s head snaps up, thinking the question was addressed to him, but he realizes when he looks over at Sharpy, that Sharpy’s eyeing Jonny - Jonny, who’s looking back at Patrick.</p>
<p>How long has he known Patrick was here?</p>
<p>As soon as their gazes connect Jonny turns away, heading back up to the hostess station. The rest of the crew filter in seconds later and they’re all guided to their table where Jonny sits at the opposite end from Patrick. If it’s deliberate, Patrick doesn’t know, but he suspects it is, and that Jonny not talking to him in the lobby was purposeful as well.</p>
<p>God, he fucking hates this black hole between them that seems to only get bigger and angrier the more time that passes.</p>
<p>If Patrick can fix it he has to try, even if the outcome isn’t what he ultimately wants, even if Jonny will never feel the same way. Patrick has to make this better.</p>
<p>He has to.</p>
<p>The alternative is too incomprehensible to imagine.</p>
<p>All through lunch, Patrick talks about hockey, and the NBA playoffs. He eats his fancy avocado and bacon burger, and thinks about how he can get Jonny to sit still long enough to talk to him for five minutes. Then he thinks about what he’ll say, and all of the reasons Jonny should give him another chance, like: that they’ve known each other since they were eleven years old, that they’ve won a Cup together, that no one knows them better than the other, that Andree and Bryan really like Patrick, that Jonny’s his captain and he has to because it’s the law, and that Patrick’s ruined for anyone else and it’s all Jonny’s fucking fault so he can’t do takebacks now.</p>
<p>At some point, he must zone out with all of his thinking because he doesn’t even notice when Seabs, Hammer, and Crow get up from the table and leave, followed soon by Hossa and Duncs.</p>
<p>Sharpy’s waving his hand in front of Patrick’s face, snapping his fingers like an impatient mother. “Peekaboo, wake up!”</p>
<p>“What?” Patrick snaps.</p>
<p>Sharpy grins. “You were lost in the sauce, pal. You okay?”</p>
<p>From the corner of his eye, Patrick can see Jonny at the other end of the table taking care of the bill with the waitress. Now would be his time to strike, if ever.</p>
<p>“Yeah, I’m good. But I have to…” </p>
<p>He needs to wait and casually get up when Jonny does so he can bump into him on the way out the door. Nonchalant. Gotta keep it cool. Keep it chill.</p>
<p>“Have to...what?” Sharpy asks, and then he follows the direction Patrick’s looking and his brow rises. “Ahh. Yes. You should do something about that.”</p>
<p>“I’m trying,” Patrick whispers.</p>
<p>“Try harder. You both still look pitiful as fuck.” Sharpy grins. He’s enjoying this too much, the asshole.</p>
<p>“I am trying!” Patrick hisses. “He’s not making it easy.”</p>
<p>They both look over at Jonny, who’s handing the waitress the billfold with the signed receipt inside. He tells her thanks and slips his credit card back into his wallet, then his wallet into his back pocket. When he’s finished, he stands and glances at the other end of the table, noticing Patrick and Sharpy watching him.</p>
<p>“Hey,” Patrick says weakly, throwing out an awkward, aborted wave.</p>
<p>Jonny’s brow wrinkles, his lips pressing together in the form of a courteous smile. “Hey,” he says, and then stands. “See you at practice on Thursday.”</p>
<p>He politely pushes his chair into the table, ever the gentlemanly Canadian, and walks off. Patrick turns to Sharpy in alarm.</p>
<p>“See!” he says, smacking Sharpy in the arm. “He won’t talk to me. He hates me.”</p>
<p>Sharpy rolls his eyes. “Okay drama queen, let’s take it down a notch. He doesn’t hate you. He was staring at you all through lunch.”</p>
<p>“No, he wasn’t.”</p>
<p>Patrick would’ve noticed.</p>
<p>“<i>Yeah</i>, he was. You don’t notice shit.” Sharpy sighs, like he can read Patrick’s thoughts and he’s exhausted of that as well.</p>
<p>That makes two of them.</p>
<p>“He was? Really?”</p>
<p>Sharpy looks up at the ceiling like some kind of divine power is going to come through the roof and give him the answer. Now who’s being dramatic? Not Patrick, that’s who.</p>
<p>“Would I lie about something this insignificant to me? I mean, I love you guys, but you’re fucking idiots and I’m bored of it. Just go after him and talk to him. He probably wants to be chased a little to know you care or whatever. I’m done talking about this.”</p>
<p>“But I…”</p>
<p>Sharpy tugs Patrick out of his seat as he stands.</p>
<p>“Don’t think, just go.”</p>
<p>There’s an instant where Patrick hesitates and Sharpy sees it, pushing Patrick in the direction of the front door, his face turning gentle and fatherly, like Patrick’s seen whenever Sharpy is in the near vicinity of his daughter.</p>
<p>“It’s gonna be okay, kid. Trust me. And if you don’t wanna trust me, then trust yourself. No wait, you should definitely trust me. I’m the smartest person here. Now for the love of God, stop crying and go.”</p>
<p>“Fuck you,” Patrick says, blinking. “I’m not crying right now.”</p>
<p>He starts jogging towards the front of the restaurant. Behind him, he can hear Sharpy crack up. “But you thought about it!” he yells.</p>
<p>Patrick wants to deny it, but he’s too busy racing towards the parking garage down the block. Inside the building he sees Jonny waiting for an elevator and steps up beside him, trying to keep his breathing even as he says, “Hi. Again.”</p>
<p>Jonny gives Patrick the same tight smile once more. “Hey.”</p>
<p>The elevator dings open and they both get on, after a family of four with a daschund puppy on a yellow leash get off. Once the doors close, Patrick peers at Jonny from the corner of his eye.</p>
<p>He has no idea what to say, but Sharpy told him to go for it and this might be his only chance so here he goes. All or nothing.</p>
<p>“How was your lunch?” Patrick asks. “Was it good?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it was good,” Jonny says.</p>
<p>“Did you like it?”</p>
<p>“Yes.”</p>
<p>“What’d you get?” Patrick says.</p>
<p>Jonny turns and gives him a brief, confused look. “The same thing I always get? You act like we haven’t been there a hundred times. Like we weren’t there just before... It was fine. Tastes like it always does.”</p>
<p>“The free range Wagyu burger with a poached egg and flash fried kale on top?”</p>
<p>Jonny nods, his brow doing a weird scrunching thing. </p>
<p>“Right,” Patrick says. “I knew that.”</p>
<p><i>God.</i> Sharpy was wrong. Patrick is already fucking this up.</p>
<p>“So,” he says, trying to think of a better topic for discussion. “Thank you for ending the lockout, and getting hockey back. It’s not the same in Europe. Like it’s nice, but I was ready to come home. And NHL hockey is just better, you know?” Patrick starts fiddling with his hands, anything to distract him from staring at Jonny staring at the elevator doors.</p>
<p>“I wouldn’t know,” Jonny says. “Never played there.”</p>
<p>The elevator comes to an abrupt stop, the doors dinging open once more. Jonny exits before Patrick can reply.</p>
<p>“Well, it’s not better,” Patrick says. As he doubles his stride to keep up with Jonny’s long ass legs. “For the record. I mean it might’ve been if you were there with me. But you needed to be here to get us hockey back. And you did! So that’s great. Really great.”</p>
<p>“Kaner,” Jonny sighs. “I’m gonna go.”</p>
<p>Fuck, fuck, <i>fuck</i>.</p>
<p>What is he even saying? Why is he talking about the goddamn lockout? He needs to stop bullshitting around or he’s going to lose his only possibility of fixing things. He needs to suck it up and just say it.</p>
<p>“Wait!” Patrick calls, after Jonny’s taken a few steps away. “Can you - can I just say something first? I have to say something.”</p>
<p>Slowly Jonny turns around, his expression stoic and devoid of emotion, his dark eyes endless in that way that thrills Patrick and deeply comforts at the same time. A cavern of warmth, unknown from the outside and like home from the inside.</p>
<p>After a brief pause Jonny purses his lips together and nods, and Patrick wishes he knew what Jonny was thinking more than just about anything else in the entire world right now. Is he mad? Is he annoyed? Does he hate Patrick’s guts? Rethinking whether he even wants to stay on the Hawks and play with him? Is he hurt? Is he scared?</p>
<p>Patrick’s so fucking scared he can hardly stand still. </p>
<p>And, as he opens his mouth and begins to speak, he finds that this is where his courage runs out. He has to duck his head to go on, staring at his fidgeting fingers twisting together.</p>
<p>“I know you’re mad at me, and I get it. And I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he says, voice trembling. “I don’t expect you to forgive me right away but I want things to be better with us.”</p>
<p>“We’re good, Kaner. It’s okay.” </p>
<p>The air in the parking garage is dank and humid on this early April afternoon. The smell of diesel gasoline permeates everything from the concrete and up. For the moment, no one else is around but the two of them and the chirping pigeons Patrick can hear flying around outside.</p>
<p>He doesn’t look up from his hands; he can’t. Instead he stares at his red-rubbed knuckles. “But we’re not. Not really. And I don’t want to pretend we are because this fucking sucks. I miss you. Like all the time. And I know you don’t need me, that’s fine. But I <i>need</i> you in my life.”</p>
<p>His lips are quivering and he bites down on the bottom one to keep them from wobbling, to keep himself held together. Jonny doesn’t want to see him lose it in a parking garbage on fucking Ohio Street.</p>
<p>The quiet lingers on, stretching out for long enough Patrick’s considering turning, walking to his own car, and just leaving. This is so humiliating. He wants to crawl in a dirt hole and die.</p>
<p>But then there are footsteps, one, and two, and three, four, five. And a hand lands gently on Patrick’s shoulder, squeezing once and dropping away.</p>
<p>“I need you too, Patrick,” Jonny says, low and firm, his words unwavering.</p>
<p>It gives Patrick the strength to lift his head and meet Jonny’s eyes, to see the first glimmer of softness on his handsome face in months. The relief is staggering. Patrick fights to hold back the sob fighting to break free.</p>
<p>“Yeah?” he asks, hopeful.</p>
<p>Jonny’s eyes crinkle slightly at the corners and he draws Patrick underneath his arm, giving him a half hug. “Yeah, idiot. Of course I do. Wanna come over and play Halo? I got my own copy.”</p>
<p>Patrick lets out a watery laugh, leaning into Jonny’s side because he can’t help it, has to. “Have you been practicing? You’re gonna kick my ass so bad.”</p>
<p>“I was kicking your ass even before I owned the game.”</p>
<p>“And now it’s gonna be worse!” Patrick moans. “The injustice!”</p>
<p>A flicker of a smile flashes over Jonny’s mouth. “Is that a no?”</p>
<p>“Hell, no! It’s so on. Double or nothing?” Patrick shoves his hand out for Jonny to shake and tries not to shiver when Jonny’s warm, familiar palm clasps around his own </p>
<p>“I’ll take that bet,” Jonny declares.</p>
<p>They separate, reluctantly on Patrick’s part and Patrick follows Jonny in his own car to Jonny’s condo, walking with him up to his place like nothing’s changed.</p>
<p>Inside, Jonny offers Patrick a water or a Gatorade and apologizes for the mess, like he used to do back when they were rookies, and Patrick ignores the awkwardness of it all. Of them pretending like they haven’t been sleeping together for years, like Jonny didn’t ask to date Patrick and Patrick didn’t fall irrevocably in love with him, like it’s still 2008 and Jonny’s just Patrick’s friend and boring captain that he doesn’t ever seem to get tired of spending time with.</p>
<p>They play Halo for three hours, Patrick winning once for every four times Jonny does, but he doesn’t mind. It’s so good to see Jonny smile and cheer and laugh, to watch his expression shift into something joyful for the first time off the ice in months that Patrick doesn’t care about winning for once. </p>
<p>For once he loves losing.</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>It becomes a regular occurrence again after that day. And for the following two weeks, they both act out this familiar dance with each other where they either hangout at Patrick’s place watching movies and ordering takeout or they go to Jonny’s and eat whatever healthy chicken salad concoction Jonny’s cooked up as the Pens and the Rangers or the Kings and the Ducks battle it out for the top seed spot in their division.</p>
<p>When it gets too late, one of them will leave to go home and then the next day, they’ll go to the rink and play Hawks hockey, and the day after that, they’ll hang out again, in a hotel room.</p>
<p>And it’s all normal. It’s all good. Everything is great.</p>
<p>This is what Patrick wanted. He has Jonny back and he should be happy. He is happy. He is. </p>
<p>
  <i>He is.</i>
</p>
<p>*</p>
<p>“How was living in Switzerland with Seguin?” Jonny asks one night when they’re at his place. </p>
<p>They’ve been watching the Bruins spank the Habs for the last hour, drinking beers, and taking bets on which teams aren’t going to make it into the playoffs. The atmosphere has been relaxed and casual, and so it stops Patrick short to hear Jonny bring up anything to do with the lockout.</p>
<p>“It was fun.” Patrick shrugs. “He’s a great guy.”</p>
<p>“Oh yeah?” Jonny asks. He’s not really looking at Patrick. He still doesn’t, not like he used to. It’s better than it was before they had their moment in the parking garage, but it’s not the same.</p>
<p>Right now, Jonny’s watching the Bruins skate into the Habs offensive zone on a power play, Bergeron skating the puck past the blue line and trying to shoot. He misses and one of their defensemen retrieve it from the boards, skating it around the back of the net to pass it to a forward.</p>
<p>Patrick can’t see all of Jonny’s face, but he can tell Jonny’s unconvinced. The tightness of his jaw is telling.</p>
<p>“It wasn’t like that.”</p>
<p>“Like what?” Jonny says. He takes a long pull from his Bud Light and grips his big hand around the bottle.</p>
<p>“Like whatever you’re thinking.” Patrick laughs. “We didn’t hook up. I’m not into him.”</p>
<p>Jonny takes another drink of his beer, then one more, draining the rest of it dry. “None of my business,” he murmurs, flat. “You want another one?”</p>
<p>He’s asking about the beer, clearly done with the conversation he started. Okay. Whatever.</p>
<p>“Sure,” Patrick says with a sigh, watching him walk out of the room.</p>
<p><i>I want it to be your business</i>, he thinks. <i>I don’t want to be anybody’s business but yours</i>. Christ. He’s so gone. No one has ever been as gone on another person as Patrick is right this second.</p>
<p>They finish the game in silence as they drink, Patrick downing two beers, then four, then six. He hasn’t let himself drink like this since Madison, and he’s only doing it now because he knows Jonny won’t let anything bad happen. Here, Patrick is safe.</p>
<p>And in the end, nothing is exactly what happens. They turn on Netflix and pick a random movie once the game ends, a cheesy comedy with bad acting that they can both make fun of and laugh at. Patrick doesn’t mean to but he finds himself slowly migrating to Jonny’s end of the couch until he’s close enough to lean in and rest his head on Jonny’s shoulder.</p>
<p>He doesn’t remember falling asleep. Nor does he remember Jonny trying to subtly shake him awake or picking him up and carrying Patrick to his guest bedroom and laying him on the mattress. Not really. If he did, it was only in that vague, foggy haze of twilight sleep where it all feels more like a dream than reality.</p>
<p>There’s the covers being pulled over him and then a gentle hand on his forehead brushing his hair back, a thumb caressing his brow.</p>
<p>“I missed you too,” Jonny says, almost a whisper. “Every day.”</p>
<p>The door clicks shut shortly after.</p>
<p>And that - Jonny’s words - Patrick does remember.</p>
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